"All I ever did to that apartment was hang fifty yards of yellow theatrical silk across the bedroom windows, because I had some idea that the gold light would make me feel better, but I did not bother to weight the curtains correctly and all that summer the long panels of transparent golden silk would blow out the windows and get tangled and drenched in the afternoon thunderstorms. That was the year, my twenty-eighth, when I was discovering that not all of the promises would be kept, that some things are in fact irrevocable and that it had counted after all, every evasion and every procrastination, every mistake, every word, all of it."
"Don’t mistake comfort for happiness. Comfort can sometimes just be a more pleasant word for fear."
No Great Illusion: Looking, by Shinji Moon
Looking, by Shinji Moon
Looking,
There is my white feather. Your pink
moon. The way we coin the word beautiful with thingsas small and misty as light / as transient
/ as fog. We lovesolely the things that slip through us.
Men. Chlorophyll. Meltings. All that
stops at our skin and makes us beg for it to go further.Driving home from Bard, we talked about how our little brown
eyes saw things in a different light, as if the world were a place where
romantics could live, and in ourprivacy we called each other artists, even though
I no longer know how to paint, no longer know anything but my
words, even though you are the one
who collects rainfall from beautiful places to send to the boy
you love. Becausewe were driving home with Radiohead playing
in the speakers and we were talking about the world as if the world could never hurt us,and if it did, how we would love it anyway. And in quieter
and quieter voices, we talked about how we almost loved our sadness, howour ghosts were warm when we touched them, how
we could turn even our darkness into light when we moved
ourselves over, just slightly — over towardslove, over towards the bulb, over towards
the windowsill in the morning — petals pushing out
from our fingertips, our bodies making the world out as if we
were wildflowers collected by the hands of a small gap-toothed
child, as if we weren’t roses but dandelions, as if we could float away
with a louder breeze.
"She seems so cool, so focused, so quiet, yet her eyes remain fixed upon the horizon. You think you know all there is to know about her immediately upon meeting her, but everything you think you know is wrong. Passion flows through her like a river of blood."
Neil Gaiman, Fragile Things (via femme-ex-machina)
"Let’s not look directly at what
is meant to be loved in secret. Let’s, for example,
imagine the sea is always, constantly, and forever
spilling toward us, that our screaming building is
something worth escaping."
is meant to be loved in secret. Let’s, for example,
imagine the sea is always, constantly, and forever
spilling toward us, that our screaming building is
something worth escaping."
Zachary Schomburg; excerpt from ”Building of Unseen Cats” (via theoryoflostthings)
"
Think of the firefly,
beating its bright pulse.
Think of the firefly
smashed against a child’s arm
because someone promised it would make his wrist glow
and he wanted to keep the light forever.
Think of the first love you ever destroyed
because you’d never known anything like it before,
like seeing your own heartbeat outside of yourself,
a flickering, luminescent miracle -
you wanted to crush it to your skin.
Think of the luster inside you,
that spark that blazed the first time
you bared yourself to another human being, said:
Call me brilliant as the sun,
or ugly as a naked bulb,
I am dangling before you
so you might not stumble.
April Ranger, “The Light Inside Us” (via commovente)
"Let us be eager to leave what is familiar for what is true."
Fran Chan (via raeanna)
"There are two ways to reach me: by way of kisses or by way of the imagination. But there is a hierarchy: the kisses alone don’t work."
Anaïs Nin, Henry And June (via m-as-tu-vu)
"Remember that sometimes not getting what you want is a wonderful stroke of luck."
The Dalai Lama (via lazyyogi)
Hello everything this.
"Under the pavement, the dirt is dreaming of grass."
Wendell Berry (via fruitsnutsflakes)
Hello relevance.
Life things are shifting in my world. Hopefully I’ll tell you about it soon.
"Recycle the mail, don’t read it, don’t read anything
except what destroys
the insulation between yourself and your experience
or what pulls down or what strikes at or what shatters
this ruse you call necessity."
except what destroys
the insulation between yourself and your experience
or what pulls down or what strikes at or what shatters
this ruse you call necessity."
Louise Erdrich, from “Advice to Myself”
Favourite final sentences #1
(via the-final-sentence)
Hello Louise Erdrich, damn you and your prose.
“Come to the orchard in Spring.
There is light and wine, and sweethearts
in the pomegranate flowers.
If you do not come, these do not matter.
If you do come, these do not matter.”—Rumi
One of my favorite poems by one of my favorite poets and one of my favorite works of art.
Hello the perfect way to welcome spring.
"Listen. To live is to be marked. To live is to change, to acquire the words of a story, and that is the only celebration we mortals really know. In perfect stillness, frankly, I’ve only found sorrow."
You Rach You Lose: peelsofpoetry: Frida Kahlo to Marty McConnell by Marty McConnell...
Frida Kahlo to Marty McConnell
by Marty McConnell
leaving is not enough; you must
stay gone. train your heart
like a dog. change the locks
even on the house he’s never
visited. you lucky, lucky girl.
you have an apartment
just your size. a bathtub
full of tea. a heart the size
of Arizona, but not nearly
so arid. don’t wish away
your cracked past, your
crooked toes, your problems
are papier mache puppets
you made or bought because the vendor
at the market was so compelling you just
had to have them. you had to have him.
and you did. and now you pull down
the bridge between your houses,
you make him call before
he visits, you take a lover
for granted, you take
a lover who looks at you
like maybe you are magic. make
the first bottle you consume
in this place a relic. place it
on whatever altar you fashion
with a knife and five cranberries.
don’t lose too much weight.
stupid girls are always trying
to disappear as revenge. and you
are not stupid. you loved a man
with more hands than a parade
of beggars, and here you stand. heart
like a four-poster bed. heart like a canvas.
heart leaking something so strong
they can smell it in the street.
This poem is blowing my mind. Note to zillions of rebloggers: Frida Kahlo didn’t write it. Marty McConnell did.
Hello beauty and more tears.
