"If the dream is a translation of waking life, waking life is also a translation of the dream."
René Magritte (via likeafieldmouse)
are2dtoo said: the marijuana in his system could have affected his reaction time, meaning that if the officer told him to turn around & he took too long to do so, the cop could have gotten impatient & shot him
I want you to think about what you just said.
I. love. the. Anaconda. video. but the writeups I’ve been seeing keep referring to Drake as a co-star, which I think misses a big part of the point.
The reason this video rules is because Drake is an extra. Drake is a prop. Drake is a bro in the comfy-casual clothes that he rolled up to the set in, who has no lines or purpose other than the be ground upon, and whose face is obscured by shadows most of the time.
This is not a continuation of the Drake/Nicki/Rih media narrative. This is a dank-as-fuck feminist power play. This is, “Drake is whatever to me.” And this is a man who, if he isn’t at the top of his game, is close to it. A huge celebrity. And here is Nicki looking fucking amazing, tormenting him into a boner, then swatting his hand away and walking out of frame.
Your anaconda don’t want none unless she got buns, hun? Maybe she doesn’t want your anaconda. Maybe she’ll do whatever the fuck she wants with her buns, and it doesn’t matter what you think or feel.
Out comes the whip. We’re lazy, stuck, worthless. Our ideas are shallow, uninteresting, tepid. What’s our problem? Why can’t we just crank out pages like some literary version of a well-oiled machine?
I’ll tell you why not. Because this writing thing is hard. It always feels good to have written, but it rarely feels good to sit down to write. If I were to describe my own physical process, it’s like a nearly-unbearable tension within me slowly begins to rise. A welling up of so many thoughts and feelings that it feels I might explode. And yet, at the same time, there is the seeming impossibility of finding the words, of knowing what’s next, of getting it right. Shoulders tense. Jaw tightens. Eyes sting. Breath becomes shallow. Mind buzzes in circles endlessly. The page is a solid wall at which I must run, full tilt, and only by running, only by hurling myself straight at it might it crumble and give way. But it appears so solid! So unforgiving! Sometime I bang against it, and limp away, bruised and bloody. Other times, it turns out the wall was just a mirage. But there’s only one way to find out.
So. How to begin? Improbably enough, we must begin with kindness."
The brilliant Dani Shapiro, a modern sage of the pleasures and perils of writing and the creative life, reflects on getting to work.
The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air 2x09 - “Cased Up” (November 11, 1991)