The Random Blondeus

Hi my name is Julie!
I am currently a college junior and am an aspiring Comedian / Actress / Writer/ Model/ Master of Slashes.

I love acting and making people laugh more than anything in the world- these are my two favorite things.

I have my joy, my kindness, my dreams, my love, my faults, my extreme awkwardness and my friends who accept and love me- just as I am.

Oh, love will make a dog howl in rhyme.

—Francis Beaumont (via 7heartbreaks)

When I was fifteen
I believed there was a sound
of madness that was distinguishable
from the world around me.
Then I got a little older,
a little wiser (maybe),
and found madness has a sound
but it’s not distinct:
madness is the battle cry
of a thousand broken pieces
stitched together to form
that one long howl which
makes it distinct only from
the forced sanity of the
well-adjusted and responsible
people in their white-collar
uniforms and their high-power
jobs and their nice homes.
For the rest of us there’s
this howling of madness
that’s been mistaken for
sanity by those of us
who don’t know any better.

—Howl of Madness (via slamthiscrap)

I’m with you in Rockland
where we are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter

—Ginsberg, Allen. “Howl.” Collected Poems: 1947-1997. New York: HarperPerennial, 2006. Print.  (via zrogers89)

Which way will the sunflower turn surrounded by millions of suns?

—Allen Ginsberg, Howl, Kaddish and Other Poems (via quotes-shape-us)

America I’ve given you all and now I’m nothing.
America two dollars and twenty-seven cents January 17, 1956.
I can’t stand my own mind.
America when will we end the human war?
Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb
I don’t feel good don’t bother me.
I won’t write my poem till I’m in my right mind.
America when will you be angelic?
When will you take off your clothes?
When will you look at yourself through the grave?
When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites?
America why are your libraries full of tears?
America when will you send your eggs to India?
I’m sick of your insane demands.
When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks?
America after all it is you and I who are perfect not the next world.
Your machinery is too much for me.
You made me want to be a saint.
There must be some other way to settle this argument.
Burroughs is in Tangiers I don’t think he’ll come back it’s sinister.
Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical joke?
I’m trying to come to the point.
I refuse to give up my obsession.
America stop pushing I know what I’m doing.
America the plum blossoms are falling.
I haven’t read the newspapers for months, everyday somebody goes on trial for murder.
America I feel sentimental about the Wobblies.
America I used to be a communist when I was a kid and I’m not sorry.
I smoke marijuana every chance I get.
I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the roses in the closet.
When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid.
My mind is made up there’s going to be trouble.
You should have seen me reading Marx.
My psychoanalyst thinks I’m perfectly right.
I won’t say the Lord’s Prayer.
I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations.
America I still haven’t told you what you did to Uncle Max after he came over
from Russia.

I’m addressing you.
Are you going to let our emotional life be run by Time Magazine?
I’m obsessed by Time Magazine.
I read it every week.
Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner candystore.
I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library.
It’s always telling me about responsibility. Businessmen are serious. Movie
producers are serious. Everybody’s serious but me.
It occurs to me that I am America.
I am talking to myself again.

Asia is rising against me.
I haven’t got a chinaman’s chance.
I’d better consider my national resources.
My national resources consist of two joints of marijuana millions of genitals
an unpublishable private literature that goes 1400 miles and hour and
twentyfivethousand mental institutions.
I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of underpriviliged who live in
my flowerpots under the light of five hundred suns.
I have abolished the whorehouses of France, Tangiers is the next to go.
My ambition is to be President despite the fact that I’m a Catholic.

America how can I write a holy litany in your silly mood?
I will continue like Henry Ford my strophes are as individual as his
automobiles more so they’re all different sexes
America I will sell you strophes $2500 apiece $500 down on your old strophe
America free Tom Mooney
America save the Spanish Loyalists
America Sacco & Vanzetti must not die
America I am the Scottsboro boys.
America when I was seven momma took me to Communist Cell meetings they
sold us garbanzos a handful per ticket a ticket costs a nickel and the
speeches were free everybody was angelic and sentimental about the
workers it was all so sincere you have no idea what a good thing the party
was in 1835 Scott Nearing was a grand old man a real mensch Mother
Bloor made me cry I once saw Israel Amter plain. Everybody must have
been a spy.
America you don’re really want to go to war.
America it’s them bad Russians.
Them Russians them Russians and them Chinamen. And them Russians.
The Russia wants to eat us alive. The Russia’s power mad. She wants to take
our cars from out our garages.
Her wants to grab Chicago. Her needs a Red Reader’s Digest. her wants our
auto plants in Siberia. Him big bureaucracy running our fillingstations.
That no good. Ugh. Him makes Indians learn read. Him need big black niggers.
Hah. Her make us all work sixteen hours a day. Help.
America this is quite serious.
America this is the impression I get from looking in the television set.
America is this correct?
I’d better get right down to the job.
It’s true I don’t want to join the Army or turn lathes in precision parts
factories, I’m nearsighted and psychopathic anyway.
America I’m putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.

—Allen Ginsberg, America, 1956.

Reposting from myself cause i’m listening to this on vinyl and it’s probably my favorite poem. (via thehopedrone)

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness,

starving hysterical naked,

dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking

for an angry fix,

angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly

connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,

who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed high sat up smoking in

the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the

tops of cities contemplating jazz

—Allen Ginsberg - Howl (via uncorpse)

Hold back the edges of your gowns, Ladies, we are going through hell.

William Carlos Williams, Introduction to Howl and Other Poems (via cranberrythimble)

Poets are damned but they are not blind, they see with the eyes of the angels.

William Carlos Williams

Introduction to Howl

(via acceptthetightrope)

You should date a girl who reads

beautifulinmotion:

Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes, who has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.

Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that…

chrisgriswold:

ablativeofyourmotherssorrow:

princeofbellehair:

 

huffingtonpost:

This List Of Sex Tips From Women’s Magazines Is Missing One Very Important Word

These bits of bedroom advice are from Desireé Dallagiacomo and Kaycee Filson’s poem, “Real Sex Tips,” performed at the summer 2014 National Poetry Slam.

Their full poem calling women to reclaim their sexual identity is an inspiring must-see you can watch here.

This is important

Absolutely important.

But also, please don’t do any of those things to me.