21. Manila, Philippines.
Friends. Books. Novels. Music. Cats. The Big Bang Theory. Snow Patrol. Movies. Poems. The Beatles. T.H. White. J.R.R. Tolkien. Dave Eggers. Orange. That 70's Show. My course. Stars (the band). Stars (the ones in the sky). Laughing. Talking. Late nights. Writing. Bouncing. If you're reading this you're bored. Family Guy. Quietdrive. Pulp Fiction. Ridley Scott. Death Proof. A Rocket to the Moon. Johnny Depp. Super heroes. Humor. Color. Raptor. Rhyming. George R.R. Martin. Smiling. Quentin Tarantino. Short Stories. Margaret Atwood. Bram Stoker. Tim Burton. Elizabeth Bathory. Left for Dead. You're really bored. Wavy hair. Jostein Gaarder. Pens. George Orwell. Mookie Katigbak. Google. Ranting. Eraserheads. Keeping silent. Close-reading. F. Sionil Jose. Critiques. Papers. Procrastinating. Dreaming. This is too long. But still not enough. You're still bored.
Feel free to look.
Lit Major, Ateneo de Manila University
TAGGED:
My Blog
Musique
My Photos
Poetry
I love Cats
Oh God, give me a break.
“So I thought the idea that would, in the case of Pulp Fiction, would be kind of cool, was to take three separate stories, and make them the oldest stories in the book, whether it be, um…Vincent’s character, the hoodlum, has to go out with the boss’s lady, but don’t touch her! And there’s the whole history of people who have touched her, and what happens. Well we’ve seen that before, a zillion times…and the case of the Bruce Willis story, that the boxer’s supposed to throw the fight, and he doesn’t, and now the mob’s after him…we’ve seen that story a million times as well. And one of the things I thought about, like, the third story, was basically kind of the beginning of, at that time, almost every Joel Silver movie, which would start off with like a couple hit men showing up, boom boom, alright, ‘you wanna witness something witness this!’ (makes gun shooting noise, laughs). And then they shoot the guy and it cuts to Arnold Schwarzenegger walking through the forest and eventually he’s gonna meet those guys. And so I thought, what happens if we hung out with them? All night long? Or…all day long? After they’ve killed the guy, what happens with the rest of their day? And so it was like taking these, these chestnuts and putting them together and then, actually having the characters kind of intertwine and it all kind of takes place in one…city, and it’s an environment that they all live in, and characters kind of know each other, but you don’t know that for a while. And we’re just kind of hanging out with them for those two days.” - quentin tarantino on the inspiration for pulp fiction
(Source: tayshathefilmgeek, via mephenstalkmus)
A Map of the World, by Ted Kooser
A Map of the World
One of the ancient maps of the world
is heart-shaped, carefully drawn
and once washed with bright colors,
though the colors have faded
as you might expect feelings to fade
from a fragile old heart, the brown map
of a life. But feeling is indelible,
and longing infinite, a starburst compass
pointing in all the directions
two lovers might go, a fresh breeze
swelling their sails, the future uncharted,
still far from the edge
where the sea pours into the stars.
Ted Kooser(via lexically)
(via kaelco)
sonder
n. the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own—populated with their own ambitions, friends, routines, worries and inherited craziness—an epic story that continues invisibly around you like an anthill sprawling deep underground, with elaborate passageways to thousands of other lives that you’ll never know existed, in which you might appear only once, as an extra sipping coffee in the background, as a blur of traffic passing on the highway, as a lighted window at dusk.
[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]
Tommy James & The Shondells | I Think We’re Alone Now
(via pinklipstiiick)
[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]
Tom Hiddleston reads Bright Star by John Keats
Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art—
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—
No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or else swoon to death.And with that, I bid you all good night.
:)
(Source: lazyocean)
