“We suffocate among people who think they are absolutely right, whether in their machines or in their ideas. And for all who can live only in an atmosphere of human dialogue and sociability, this silence is the end of the world.”—Albert Camus, “Neither Victims nor Executioners” (via adorno-und-austerlitz)
“Depression is humiliating. It turns intelligent, kind people into zombies who can’t wash a dish or change their socks. It affects the ability to think clearly, to feel anything, to ascribe value to your children, your lifelong passions, your relative good fortune. It scoops out your normal healthy ability to cope with bad days and bad news, and replaces it with an unrecognizable sludge that finds no pleasure, no delight, no point in anything outside of bed. You alienate your friends because you can’t comport yourself socially, you risk your job because you can’t concentrate, you live in moderate squalor because you have no energy to stand up, let alone take out the garbage. You become pathetic and you know it. And you have no capacity to stop the downward plunge. You have no perspective, no emotional reserves, no faith that it will get better. So you feel guilty and ashamed of your inability to deal with life like a regular human, which exacerbates the depression and the isolation. If you’ve never been depressed, thank your lucky stars and back off the folks who take a pill so they can make eye contact with the grocery store cashier. No one on earth would choose the nightmare of depression over an averagely turbulent normal life.
It’s not an incapacity to cope with day to day living in the modern world. It’s an incapacity to function. At all. If you and your loved ones have been spared, every blessing to you. If depression has taken root in you or your loved ones, every blessing to you, too. No one chooses it. No one deserves it. It runs in families, it ruins families. You cannot imagine what it takes to feign normalcy, to show up to work, to make a dentist appointment, to pay bills, to walk your dog, to return library books on time, to keep enough toilet paper on hand, when you are exerting most of your capacity on trying not to kill yourself. Depression is real. Just because you’ve never had it doesn’t make it imaginary. Compassion is also real. And a depressed person may cling desperately to it until they are out of the woods and they may remember your compassion for the rest of their lives as a force greater than their depression. Have a heart. Judge not lest ye be judged.”—
Depression is not a synonym for being sad or having a bad day/bad week. (via thewastedgeneration)
"But there’s more to it than this habitual attempt to evade any political responsibility, commercial motives have also played their part in this urgent campaign to blame the driver and only the driver. Spanish companies are bidding for high speed rail projects around the world and in some cases there are conditions for bidding that include a clean safety record. So the line where the accident occurred is no longer considered to be high speed since the accident, although it was presented as such and forms part of the planned AVE line connecting Madrid and Galicia. It’s true that no AVE trains run on the line at the moment, but there are services running on it capable of travelling at speeds up to 250km per hour. That’s not high speed?"
“It will be sad when she dies, but the best outcome would be if she doesn’t wake up from an afternoon nap and dies a natural death from old age.”—World’s Oldest Wild Bear Still Roaming Minn. [Union-Bulletin]
Cyndi Lauper: “When You Were Mine” (She’s So Unusual, 1983)
I’m always half-surprised when I encounter people more familiar with this version of the song than Prince’s. Half-surprised because it ultimately makes sense: She’s So Unusual sold six million copies in the U.S.; Dirty Mind is still only certified Gold. Yet Lauper’s cover seems so distinctly an elaboration on the sound of the original; it’s as if Prince’s song were left to bake roundly in the sun. The drums relax—they nearly yawn—into a mechanical ease; the guitars become accents, they filigree somewhere above the track or flow warmly into the synths. On record it’s a summery decompression from the bright and fitful “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” but it leaves me sort of perilously unguarded for the watery creation of “Time After Time,” a song that makes me hideous with tears.
So I’m not the only person who sobs listening to “Time After Time?”
"Marat/Sade," Judy Collins. Jean-Paul Marat, assassinated July 13, 1793. We want our rights and we don’t care how. We want a revolution… now!
My brother Brian was studying theater at Hunter College, NYC and was singing, declaiming and memorizing every single bit of “Marat/Sade” during the hottest and saddest anti-Vietnam war years, like that awful week after the Kent State shootings.We had learned it all years before from the Judy Collins album, “In My LIfe”. Imagine little me, in my Catholic school uniform in 1966, angry and tearful, in the schoolyard….mumbling….”String up every aristocrat, out with the priests and let them live off their fat.”
Bless and thank you all the artists who keep us alive.