humansofnewyork:

"I’ve been trying to get into a full time orchestra for the past 20 years. I’d guess I’ve been to over 200 auditions. It can be pretty heartbreaking. I tried out for the New York Philharmonic four times. One time I prepared three months for the Los Angeles Philharmonic audition, flew all the way across the country, and they cut me off after twelve seconds. But believe or not, I still have a certain amount of optimism about the process. And I think I’m getting better."

Love it.

humansofnewyork:

"I’ve been trying to get into a full time orchestra for the past 20 years. I’d guess I’ve been to over 200 auditions. It can be pretty heartbreaking. I tried out for the New York Philharmonic four times. One time I prepared three months for the Los Angeles Philharmonic audition, flew all the way across the country, and they cut me off after twelve seconds. But believe or not, I still have a certain amount of optimism about the process. And I think I’m getting better."

Love it.

fuck-yeah-personal:

Can you hear me cry? Worth waiting another year for!

fuck-yeah-personal:

Can you hear me cry? Worth waiting another year for!

mothgirlwings:

The Mock Turtle sings in "Alice In Wonderland" (1915)

Beautiful soup

#mate handcrafted by Daniel 💜

#mate handcrafted by Daniel 💜

nprbooks:

theatlantic:

The Deathbed Confessions of William Butler Yeats

Seventy-five years ago today—on January 28, 1939—William Butler Yeats died at a boarding house on the French Riviera. He was 73 years old, at the height of his fame and glory. “Mr. Yeats frequently let his mind roam far afield in the realm of fancy,” gushed the New York Times obituary, “and it is for the gentle beauty of such works that he was hailed by many as the greatest poet of his time in the English language.”
But there was no gentle beauty in the three poems by Yeats that appeared in The Atlantic in January 1939, the month the poet died. All of them are brutal pieces of deathbed reckoning.
Read more. [Image: AP]


In “Man And The Echo”, published in The Atlantic in 1939, the poet writes about his guilt over the role his play Cathleen Ni Houlihan may have had in Ireland’s 1916 Easter Rising:
I lie awake night after nightAnd never get the answers right.Did that play of mine send outCertain men the English shot?Did words of mine put too great strainOn that woman’s reeling brain?Could my spoken words have checkedThat whereby a house was wrecked?And all seems evil until ISleepless would lay down and die.

nprbooks:

theatlantic:

The Deathbed Confessions of William Butler Yeats

Seventy-five years ago today—on January 28, 1939—William Butler Yeats died at a boarding house on the French Riviera. He was 73 years old, at the height of his fame and glory. “Mr. Yeats frequently let his mind roam far afield in the realm of fancy,” gushed the New York Times obituary, “and it is for the gentle beauty of such works that he was hailed by many as the greatest poet of his time in the English language.”

But there was no gentle beauty in the three poems by Yeats that appeared in The Atlantic in January 1939, the month the poet died. All of them are brutal pieces of deathbed reckoning.

Read more. [Image: AP]

In “Man And The Echo”, published in The Atlantic in 1939, the poet writes about his guilt over the role his play Cathleen Ni Houlihan may have had in Ireland’s 1916 Easter Rising:

I lie awake night after night
And never get the answers right.
Did that play of mine send out
Certain men the English shot?
Did words of mine put too great strain
On that woman’s reeling brain?
Could my spoken words have checked
That whereby a house was wrecked?
And all seems evil until I
Sleepless would lay down and die.

Entering the social realm.

Entering the social realm.

steamedcrab:

so i was watching the news and this 2nd grader wrote this to the president, vice president, and a congressman. biden was the only one to respond yet. LITERALLY.

Life is way more simple than it seems. Let’s stop complicating everything and listen to this kid. 

Her Quiet Power

I wrote this poem about a character I’m developing for a short story.

She has a power unlike any other,
a ruse that keeps them all from coming back
She wants to get so close, yet pulls away
Unknowingly becoming like her dream.

It started long ago; that frantic dreaming
and reoccurred each night: awake, asleep,
half-conscious, comatose, she fell in love
with thoughts of knowing everyone too well.

Now all of her respect for troubled souls just
disintegrates instantly at their feet.
Not recognizing affability, 
They heed her word, and quickly step away.

Lonely, but not alone - she knows the answers
Understands how to navigate this life
Assumes her role: with quiet admiration,
she helps the others, unbeknownst to them.

firstbook:

Or better yet, you can give happiness by giving books :)

firstbook:

Or better yet, you can give happiness by giving books :)

everybodyactnatural:

I WAS SO NOT EXPECTING THIS. I AM CRYING

everybodyactnatural:

I WAS SO NOT EXPECTING THIS. I AM CRYING