crooked neighbour

17 • sagittarius • ESFP • totally in love with a lumberjack • i'm the multimedia lazer light show you saw last week in radon canyon

aaronwynia:

Sunset Puddle. Toronto, 2014.

aaronwynia:

Sunset Puddle. Toronto, 2014.

1 hour ago on September 21st | J | 6,002 notes
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Song: I Shall Be Released (Phone)
Artist: Jeff Buckley
Played: 741 times.

weloveyoujeff:

Jeff Buckley - I Shall Be Released

This amazing cover was recorded over the phone from a radio show. If you haven’t heard this, you are certainly missing out. 

this has like two minutes of talking and stuff but oh man when you get to the singing it’s SO WORTH IT

1 hour ago on September 21st | J | 143 notes
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Song: Sweet Thing
Artist: Jeff Buckley
Album: Live at Sin-é
Played: 212 times.

xushima:

- Jeff Buckley, Sweet Thing

[…]

And I will raise my hand up into the midnight sky

And count all the lights that shining in your eye

Just to dig it all and not to question well that’s just fine

Just to dig it all and never wonder well that’s just fine

And I’ll be satisfied not to read between the lines

 

And we will walk and talk in gardens all misty wet with rain

We will, someday

And we, you and me, walk and talk in gardens all misty wet with rain

You and me, we will walk

and talk in gardens all misty wet with rain

And we shall walk in gardens all misty wet with rain

And we shall walk in gardens all misty wet with rain

We shall walk and talk in gardens all misty wet with rain

And we will never, ever grow so old again.

Oh sweet thing, oh sweet thing

Sweet, oh you know we will, oh you know we will

1 hour ago on September 21st | J | 20 notes
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Song: Calling You (Rare Studio Recording)
Artist: Jeff Buckley
Played: 1,819 times.

weloveyoujeff:

Jeff Buckley - Calling You (Rare Studio Recording)

1 hour ago on September 21st | J | 237 notes
I have no advice for anybody; except to, you know, be awake enough to see where you are at any given time, and how that is beautiful, and has poetry inside. Even places you hate.
Jeff Buckley (via indicio)
1 hour ago on September 21st | J | 1,622 notes
9 hours ago on September 20th | J | 78 notes
14 hours ago on September 20th | J | 3 notes
1 day ago on September 19th | J | 28 notes
1 day ago on September 19th | J | 3 notes
Tagged as: #don't 
plays

officialnyteblayde:

whyd you leave the keys upon the mable

1 day ago on September 19th | J | 4,055 notes
Tagged as: #okay 

At six years old, I was jumping from one dusty square of floor to another, as I giggled and watched my grandma open a can of creamed corn. She looked up at me apprehensively, emptied the corn into a ceramic bowl, and said, “You’ve got a case of the giggles, don’t you!” I laughed in response. Of course I did. I was young enough to still find life terribly amusing. My grandma looked down at the corn, then threw the now empty can into the trash with a “clang!” “So,” she said, as she put the cracked ceramic bowl into the microwave, “Do you know what you want to be when you grow up?” I giggled again, loving our entire interaction. “An artist!” Turning away from the microwave, my grandma looked at me-six years old, hair hanging rattily behind my back, clothes a little loose-and said, “An actress? Oh, child. Really, how impractical is that?”

I learn how heavy “practical” tastes when I am fourteen years old and struggling with my “required for graduation” math class. “Something about pre-algebra does not click in my head,” I explain to my mom. “Go to after school tutoring, study in your room, you’re probably not trying hard enough,” she offers in reply. Hunched over my desk as the sky turns hot inky black, I type formula after formula into my scientific calculator in hopes one of them will hint at what is wrong with me. But no amount of staring at numbers causes them to make sense. Down the hall, I hear my stepfather tell my mother, “It’s not so bad. McDonald’s always takes dropouts.” I hear her laugh, as I climb into bed, clothes still on, calculator still buzzing, and pull the covers high over my head.

I pass my math class, but not before questioning whether the barely satisfactory “70%” says something acute about me. It shouldn’t be this hard, I tell myself. I could have spent those hours laughing with my friends studying, I think. I swallow the red marks which outline my mistakes on my exam, until my throat is criss-crossed with faults. It takes a month of whispering, “Your grades do not indicate your worth, your grades do not indicate your worth,” before I begin to believe it.

At nineteen, my head is too heavy with school, work, and a lack of sleep to breathe easily. One morning, my shrill alarm sounds at nine a.m., but I do not get up. I press my face hard into my pillow, in hopes of my dreams from the night before rubbing off on me. I think about living in a place where I do not judge myself based on others’ assessments. I think about being in a body that does not call itself “impractical” for wanting to disappear into the hills it passes on the way to work. My mother comes into my room and asks, “Aren’t you up yet? I thought you had class at nine?” I sigh and throw the covers off me. I tell myself it is necessary to put in effort for the future I want. I tell myself that I am lucky to have an education, when so many people are denied one. I tell myself there will be time for climbing hills and sitting in the sun, that things will come in due time, that it’s my fault for wanting everything at once.

But one day, I am walking to school, when my feet instinctively begin chasing the sunlight on the brown hills enclosing my neighborhood. As much as my head may listen, my body refuses to accept “practicality.” “Fine,” I say to my feet. “Fine, we’ll try it your way.” I stop telling myself that there is something wrong with me for wanting more. I pick up a textbook and soak in the information in order to learn, not solely to get a good grade. I quit my demanding cubicle job and send myself sailing into the sun-all without an apology. I cloak myself in my “illogical” goals and state proudly, “I want to create for a living.” I throw “practical” into the trash with a “clang!,” put my foot on top of it, and smash it down, hard. I am not practical. I am spitfire, illogical, tons of feelings swishing about a body. And I have told myself otherwise for too long to not believe this: Your happiness means more than a degree or a paycheck. Your happiness means more than your G.P.A. or your job experience. Your happiness means more than others’ opinion of you and it’s worth fighting for, no matter how terrifying that may be.

To The Student Crying About Their Grades | Lora Mathis (via lora-mathis)
1 day ago on September 19th | J | 2,430 notes

cooopsss:

witchyburgerbabe:

Palo Alto (director Gia Coppola)

I think this sequence perfectly captures the boredom a person feels, in their bedroom, where they don’t know what to do or where to go

Accurate

1 day ago on September 19th | J | 22,015 notes
1 day ago on September 19th | J | 24,421 notes
1 day ago on September 19th | J | 100,962 notes

EYELINER GA ME

1 day ago on September 19th | J | 2 notes