October 20, 2014 / 1 Notes
Teatro Tomasino’s 37th

Teatro Tomasino’s 37th

October 14, 2014 / 8136 Notes
humansofnewyork:

"Before he was born, so much of my life was about moving forward. I was always looking toward the next house, the next car, the next job. Having a child with special needs really made me slow down and examine my definition of success. It also opened my eyes to how many people around me were willing to help.""What was your most difficult moment as a parent?""After being strong for so long, there was a moment when my wife finally broke down. And that was very difficult for me to see.""What was your happiest moment?""After months of coming home from work every day, kissing him on the cheek, and telling him I loved him— one day he said it back."

humansofnewyork:

"Before he was born, so much of my life was about moving forward. I was always looking toward the next house, the next car, the next job. Having a child with special needs really made me slow down and examine my definition of success. It also opened my eyes to how many people around me were willing to help."
"What was your most difficult moment as a parent?"
"After being strong for so long, there was a moment when my wife finally broke down. And that was very difficult for me to see."
"What was your happiest moment?"
"After months of coming home from work every day, kissing him on the cheek, and telling him I loved him— one day he said it back."

October 7, 2014 / 299 Notes

"Writing is a religious act: it is an ordering, a reforming, a relearning and reloving of people and the world as they are and as they might be. A shaping which does not pass away like a day of typing or a day of teaching. The writing lasts: it goes about on its own in the world. People read it: react to it as to a person, a philosophy, a religion, a flower: they like it, or do not. It helps them, or it does not. It feels to intensify living: you give more, probe, ask, look, learn, and shape this: you get more: monsters, answers, color and form, knowledge. You do it for itself first. If it brings in money, how nice. You do not do it first for money. Money isn’t why you sit down at the typewriter. Not that you don’t want it. It is only too lovely when a profession pays for your bread and butter. With writing, it is maybe, maybe-not. How to live with such insecurity? With what is worst, the occasional lack or loss of faith in the writing itself? How to live with these things? The worst thing, worse than all of them, would be to live with not writing. So how to live with the lesser devils and keep them lesser?"

Sylvia Plath, from a diary entry (via violentwavesofemotion)
October 7, 2014 / 1 Notes
The day was setting and the clouds thick. The light passed through gently through my window and the walls were like lacquered thickly of an orange-purplish haze. The day had been nice. The day had been merciful: warm tile floors, billowing curtains, breeze a gentle, and a world of my own quiet — a merciful day, it is.

The day was setting and the clouds thick. The light passed through gently through my window and the walls were like lacquered thickly of an orange-purplish haze. The day had been nice. The day had been merciful: warm tile floors, billowing curtains, breeze a gentle, and a world of my own quiet — a merciful day, it is.

October 4, 2014 / 4 Notes
The city’s wrapped in a fleece of wooly cumulous, the wind cold breathing through the window, and the sun shyly peering through greys. I thought it was nice, just nice. I suspect the weather will continue thus in the following weeks.

The city’s wrapped in a fleece of wooly cumulous, the wind cold breathing through the window, and the sun shyly peering through greys. I thought it was nice, just nice. I suspect the weather will continue thus in the following weeks.