These are nothing
#1
Winded while she writes
Poems make her nose bleed blue
He says it won't hurt
#2
Still in bed alone
With old infatuations
But he shaved his beard
Him
Never say never
Transatlanticism though?
We don't need the ferry
Insanity
Anna Malagrida (and below)
Imagination for
the making
unrealistic
of expectations
optimistic
and comfort
there is
disappointment
in the sphere of
mystical reflections
and consumption is
a lack of
comprehension
the understanding:
but a
hopeless collision
bound for
every masochist
of which
will dream.
And Now
Hold on
to the silence
and
taste the
anxiety
of Other
knowing not
the sphere
of Mind
and mine
rooted in
after
and before
the moment
turns to my
uncertainty
and I
myself,
into a dream
sweat in seeped
confusion
it insulates
from me
the lurid chill
of truth
and being
namely naked
and none with
all apart
broken
Werner Bischof
Nan Goldin
Eggs are for breakfast
William Eggleston
He wears a Rolex to
the spot we go
eat eggs and brioche
warm my belly
like skim milk coffee
dreams he asks for
refills and me I
ask him why he
is the way he is and
isn't and his eyes light
up like baby blue
sunbeams and songs I
finally stop sweating
so I can hear his
words without my
own reflections in the
mirror it's safe
to do so much
of nothing and
everything together
is not enough when
black umbrellas cost
five dollars and body
parts so small we
will laugh all
day I think we
could make each
other more than
big rocks that hold
our heads and I
don’t want to see
you walking from
behind but speak
in odds and restless
repetition even
yawns are little
bits of butter next
to constant realizations
of infatuated energy
and I would like
to drive your car.
Second Date
Elliot Erwitt
He was
her
the way
she looked
in clouds
connect
he was
with
kisses
bright
and music
moving
nightly
drops
of smiles
but rain
it warms
her lips
me up
and liking
him
her face
blue
not only
but
his eyes
away
deeply
under
skies
inhale
of
breathless
leaves
that
speak
her spirit
climbing
up
to face
his knees
awake
in sighs.
Cole Weston, son of photographer Edward Weston, kisses his wife, Dorothy, goodbye; Ansel Adams
Kiss me and you will see how important I am.
―Sylvia Plath
William Eggleston
Recovery
She cannot
hear
the sounds
but sleep
she is
in stars
a cloud
of grey
on earth, the dreams are brown
but her time is
laced
in silent
conclusions
madness as
the music plays,
its melody
bleeding
black
but not wanting
to see so
far alone
herself
she erases
memories and what
she remembers
is ruthlessly
unkind and
yet
sublime
in spirit she is
finger tips of
cold confusion
contracting covers
wet with
dead sensations
always asking
questions
that lack
responses
makes the
realizations
nothing
in the
empty
touches
but
to bare
too much
undressed she is
alone.
You write me
haikus in the morning.
I love the gap between your teeth and the fact that your hair is thinning. You say hi to the world, and it smiles. You are tall like an apple tree and hate wrinkles, in clothing not faces. I want to sleep in your shirt.
I want to see how you taste. You remind me of fall. So crisp and so sweet. I will peel the oranges on your back.
I don't know why I say shhh when you sing in the rain. Umbrellas warm me up. I put my hand in the back pocket of your pants and think of you in my sleep.
Vanilla ice cream mountain dreams, elbow pads and photographs. If only you knew. I masturbate to the sound of your voice.
Coney Island, Garry Winogrand
Gold stars and hairs in weird places. You love skiing, those pants and your dog. You only eat strawberries, but you always say the thoughts inside of my head. Sometimes you laugh and I don't know why, but it makes me feel full.
Winded when you take my hand.
Our reflection in the glass.
You remember the skim milk in my coffee and order me a second cup. No hot cider at Williams Sonoma, but you make me feel special. On your dad's birthday anywhere is fine. As long as there's a bathroom. As long as your fingers are running through my hair.
I wish you wrote that song for me.
But socks still sop in puddles. Makes me not want to sink. So I'll swim.
@ryanmcginleystudios
TWO HAIKUS
that I did not write
Big rocks and rain drops
She still ate the blackberries
Thank god I'm part French
Wandering yoga mat
Poems for breakfast fill me up
But still walk the dog
"Night Orchids," Brian Clark
On Friday Night
we kissed on the street until 3 a.m. Technically Saturday. Standing outside with our arms wrapped around each other. Laughing at politics. Talking about how the world is going to shit. And racial profiling. We kiss on the street. It is 3:45 a.m. My legs hurt a bit, but I don't want to leave. My hands are in your pockets. You are not yet hard. Why are you not yet hard. Your arms are wrapped around me. I never want to leave. 4:00 a.m. You don't ask me inside. I don't ask you inside. Why don't you ask me inside.
I like it when we laugh. You have the roundest face, one that I really like kissing. We don't talk about the future. We don't talk about what we want. Only kisses and time. And not enough time to kiss. It is almost 4:30 a.m. You seem to have no intention of leaving. I don't want you to suggest it first. I need to. For dignity. For closure. Self-composure.
Now I can say two things in Spanish. Yo quiero un café pequeño. and Pendejo. The second is not so nice. But it makes you laugh. And I like it when you laugh.
5 a.m.
He stepped down, trying not to look long at her, as if she were the sun, yet he saw her, like the sun, even without looking.
―Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina
The duality that defines my present. Garry Winogrand
That is happiness; to be dissolved into something complete and great. When it comes to one, it comes as naturally as sleep.
―Willa Cather, My Ántonia
William Eggleston
Rejection
Rejection.
How very
therapeutic.
Pint of
ice cream
resting on my belly,
spoonfuls
of self-love
and social
anxiety.
How very
high society.
Netflix
and
a bowl of
disappointment.
I eat
pills to stay
borderline
happy,
boredom
and caffeine,
the daily
ritual
of self-destruction.
Second Avenue
so much
fucking
construction.
Osamu Yokonami / @osamuyokonami
I read an article on Rejection Therapy. The idea is that you should put yourself in a position to be rejected on a daily basis. The objectives are to be aware of how social fears control and restrict our lives, learn from and enjoy rejection, and permit yourself to fail.
Last year my confidence was at its lowest point, due to new situations, social anxiety, fear of failure, and negative body image. Then I came across this article on Refinery29. I started to change my perspective of rejection, in a way that would allow me to be free from anxiety. A large part of this was focusing on the present and not anticipating the outcomes of the future.
And so as I go on one blind date after another, I struggle to think of rejection in a positive way. To be in control of the experience and my emotions. I have realized that I do not need validation from anyone else (although my initial reaction is not always so sane). And in the rejection, I burn the twigs of the unworthy. It is okay to be critical. And in the decision making, I become powerful. I have the power to choose.
Things are sweeter when they're lost. I know—because once I wanted something and got it. It was the only thing I ever wanted badly ... and when I got it it turned to dust in my hand.
-F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Beautiful and Damned
I can
feel
myself
falling, again.
Sleep won't hold me up. Nor will crazy glue, Patsy Cline, and Bonne Maman (mother of PB&Js). I had had high hopes. For repetition and double negatives. Lemons turn to vodka. White rabbits in black top hats turn to ashes in the snow. It's 75 degrees. I carry his image in my mind. It is round and distant. I breathe in his breath. Where the fuck is gravity?
@milk
@pauljungdiary
Baby-face boy with the naturally delightful voice. Lover of squirrels and arepas. Perhaps, he will appreciate my deep-thinking fatalistic type of spirit. He walks below my window. We walk together by the river. I like the way he laughs.
Staring down at him from the balcony, breeze blowing up my shorts. A chill in strange silky places. Him, standing by the gate of the building. White shirt, black pants. Black eyes, white hands. Not waiting for a white-picket-fence type of life. But his hair is getting longer. Body language: curious and a little crazed. Turning the corner. I wave to him from the sky, and he waves back. Lights flickering display me in my chair, feet pressed against the glass barrier. I feel adventurous.
And then disappearing from view. As he was of a mind to do. Third time's the charm.
She was lost in her longing to understand.
-Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Love in the Time of Cholera
Paris, 2012
I wonder if he thinks about me when he walks. I wonder if he wants to come upstairs.
I will send him poems in my sleep.
Last night I met his family in my dreams. I had avocado on my shirt.
Profound desire, true desire is the
desire to be close to someone.
-Paulo Coelho, Eleven Minutes
@brucedavidsonphoto
This Is
one of the most beautiful endings in literature that I have ever read. It is also one of the most heartbreaking.
@elizandjames
1965
Anne wished she hadn't allowed herself to be talked into giving this New Year's Eve party. She stared at the endless guests —they kept coming and going, crowding into the elevator and standing three deep at the bar. George and Lyon had pressured her into it, but giving a party was not as simple as going to one. You could always leave someone else's part. You were stuck with your own.
Celebrities from the Broadway shows began to arrive. It was past one, and she hadn't seen Lyon since their brief kiss at midnight. It was January first now, Jen's second birthday. She slipped away from everyone and walked down the hall to the nursery. The small night light picked out the dim outline of the sleeping child. "Happy New Year, angel," Anne whispered. "I love you...oh God, how I love you!" She leaned over and kissed the clean little brow, then quietly slipped out of the room. The living room was a wall of noise. The den was packed, too, and the bar was jammed. She went into her bedroom and closed the door. No, this was wrong —the hostess could not duck out. Besides, if she kept the door closed, someone would knock. It was rude. She opened the door and switched the lights off, no one could see her. She hoped they wouldn't come in. Her head was splitting.
She stretched out on the bed. The shrieks of laughter seemed far away, and the music...Somewhere she heard a glass crash... bursts of laughter... Suddenly she heard footsteps. O Lord, someone was coming. She'd say she just had to lie down. Two silhouettes came into the room. She lay quietly on the bed, hoping they would go.
"Let's close the door," the girl whispered.
"Nonsense. That would draw attention."
It was Lyon...but she could not distinguish the girl.
"I love you, Lyon." The voice sounded familiar.
"Oh, come now, you're just a baby."
"I don't care. I love you. My show was better than it's ever been last week because you personally supervised things."
His kiss silenced her.
"Lyon...will you be there every week?"
"I'll try."
"Not try — be there!" The voice was insistent. "Lyon, I'm one of the office's top properties..."
"Margie, are you trying to blackmail my love?" he said lightly.
"Is that what Neely O'Hara did?"
"There was never anything between Neely and me."
"Ha! Well, anyway, there's going to be plenty between us. God, I dig you!"
He kissed her again. "Now be a good girl. Let's get back to the party because we're missed."
Anne lay quietly until they were gone. Then she got up and straightened her dress. She went to the bathroom and took a red doll. Strangely enough, she felt no panic. Now it was Margie Parks...She found it didn't hurt as much this time. She still loved Lyon, but she loved him less. After Neely had gone he had been more devoted than ever. But there had been no sense of triumph. Something or some part of her had gone with Neely. She knew now there would always be a Neely, or a Margie...but each time it would hurt less, and afterward she would love Lyon less, until one day there would be nothing left — no hurt, and no love.
She brushed her hair and freshened her makeup. She looked fine. She had Lyon, her beautiful apartment, the beautiful child, the nice career of her own, New York — everything she had ever wanted. And from now on, she could never be hurt badly. She could always keep busy during the day, and at night — the lonely ones — there were always the beautiful dolls for company. She'd take two of the them tonight. Why not? After all, it was New Year's Eve!
-Jacqueline Susann , Valley of the Dolls
@christianespangsberg
a woman resting @christianespangsberg
Waiting
Waiting is painful. Forgetting is
painful. But not knowing which to do
is the worse kind of suffering.
-Paulo Coelho
Life is a perpetual process of waiting. For a phone call, for the weekend, for the future, for love, for the end, and for what comes after.
Waiting is the hardest part.
We went to a bar called Tom and Jerry's. I was fifteen minutes late, and when I first walked in I didn't see him. My eyes scanned the room. I wonder when he spotted me. I wonder if he was trying to catch my eye. But his smile. Sitting at the table alone with a beer. No-phone confidence, staring into space. And I smiled back. It was so easy.
He bought me a drink, and then two more. We talked about urinals and the three Ps. The words were weird, but the sentiment was right. I tried to touch his hand. Not in my head, but in the present. And I felt really happy.
And then it ended. Standing at the entrance to the subway. Waiting again. A space too awkward for intimacy. Too bright under the street lamps. There was a hug, a big one. And then a quasi high-five/handshake. I don't know why, but I cried on the way home.
I said: "I meant to tell you this on Friday, and I can't remember if I did, but I had a really nice time with you."
"Aww shucks. Me too," he said.
And then nothing.
And so I wait. For the possibility of something real, something wonderfully real. How long remains before I give up hope. How long before I am forced to forget.
@rvstapleton
And sure enough even waiting
will end...if you can just wait long enough.
-William Faulkner
Update
It started with the basics (hi, hey, and so forth).
Him: At dinner with coworkers. I was thinking of you. And when we can hang out next.
Me: Haha sure you were. [I am bad at responses.] Sorry I'm bad at responding to those sorts of things. And like every other kind of thing too."
Him: I was! I'm busy in CT this weekend hanging out with family but what's your schedule like next week? I'm free all week and would like to hang out with you.
Me: I don't really have any sort of special plan for next week, so lucky me!
Him: No, lucky me.
And now the waiting.
Hello Sadness
À Peine Défigurée
Adieu tristesse
Bonjour tristesse
Tu es inscrite dans les lignes du plafond
Tu es inscrite dans les yeux que j'aime
Tu n'es pas tout à fait la misère
Car les lèvres les plus pauvres te dénoncent
Par un sourire
Bonjour tristesse
Amour des corps aimables
Puissance de l'amour
Dont l'amabilité surgit
Comme un monstre sans corps
Tête désappointée
Tristesse beau visage.
-P. Eluard. (La vie immédiate.)
Silvino Mendonça, 2014
@ryanmcginleystudios
Bonjour Tristesse
C'est alors qu'Anne apparut; elle venait du bois. Elle courait, mal d'ailleurs, maladroitement, les coudes au corps. J'eus l'impression subite, indécente, que c'était une vieille dame qui courait, qu'elle allait tomber. Je restai sidérée: elle disparut derrière la maison, vers le garage. Alors, je compris brusquement et me mis à courir, moi aussi, pour la rattraper.
Elle était déjà dans sa voiture, elle mettait le contact. J'arrivai en courant et m'abattis sur la portière.
- Anne, - dis-je, - Anne, ne partez pas, c'est une erreur, c'est ma faute, je vous expliquerai...
Elle ne m'écoutait pas, ne me regardait pas, se penchait pour desserrer le frein.
- Anne, nous avons besoin de vous!
Elle se redressa alors, décomposée. Elle pleurait. Alors je compris brusquement que je m'étais attaquée à un être vivant et sensible et non pas à une entité. Elle avait dû être une petite fille, un peu secrète, puis une adolescente, puis une femme. Elle avait quarante ans, elle était seule, elle aimait un homme et elle avait espéré être heureuse avec lui dix ans, vingt ans peut-être. Et moi... ce visage, ce visage, c'était mon œuvre. J'étais pétrifiée, je tremblais de tout mon corps contre la portière.
- Vous n'avez besoin de personne, murmura-t-elle, ni vous ni lui.
Le moteur tournait. J'étais désespérée, elle ne pouvait partir ainsi:
- Pardonnez-moi, je vous en supplie...
- Vous pardonner quoi?
Les larmes roulaient inlassablement sur son visage. Elle ne semblait pas s'en rendre compte, le visage immobile:
- Ma pauvre petite fille!...
Elle posa une seconde sa main sur ma joue et partit. Je vis la voiture disparaître au coin clé la maison. J'étais perdue, égarée... Tout avait été si vite. Et ce visage qu'elle avait, ce visage...
At that moment Anne appeared from the direction of the woods. She was running, clumsily, heavily, her elbows close to her sides. I had a sudden, ghastly impression of an old woman running toward me, that she was about to fall down. I did not move; she disappeared behind the house, going toward the garage. In a flush I understood and I, too, began running, to catch her. She was already in her car starting it up. I rushed over and clutched at the door.
"Anne," I cried, "Don't go. It's all a mistake! It's my fault. I'll explain everything!"
She paid no attention to me, but bent to release the brake.
"Anne, we need you!"
She straightened up, and I saw that her face was distorted. She was crying. For the first time I realized that I had hurt a living, sensitive creature, not just a personality. She, too, must once have been a rather secretive small girl, later on an adolescent, and after that a woman. Now she was forty and all alone. She loved a man, and had hoped to spend ten or twenty happy years with him. As for me... that poor miserable face was my doing. I was petrified. I trembled all over as I leaned against the car door.
"You have no need of anyone," she murmured. "Neither you nor he."
The engine was running. I was desperate; she mustn't go like that!
"Forgive me! I beg you..."
"Forgive you! What for?"
The tears were streaming down her face. She did not seem to notice them.
"My poor little girl!" she said.
She laid her hand against my cheek for a moment then drove off. I saw her car disappearing
around the side of the house. I was irretrievably lost. It all happened so quickly. I thought again of her face.
-Françoise Sagan, Bonjour Tristesse
Borrowed or taken
I BELIEVE THAT THINGS HAPPEN FOR A REASON.
There is an idea that nothing is truly ours to own or possess. What we have has been borrowed or taken, and eventually, we know not when or to who, we will have to give it back.
But this idea is larger than simply material possessions. Perhaps it includes both people and time. People walk into our lives every day, some who we know and others who we have not met. But there is no forever. No one is ours to claim or to keep. We can love them for as long we can, but at some point we have to let them go. They are loaned to us for a greater purpose, although at present we know not why. They will influence us in a way that no one else can and bring us a greater sense of self-awareness. They will open our eyes to something new, and when we have received their message, they are no longer ours to hold. They will slip seamlessly through our fingers.
Yet we can take comfort in the fact that there is a cycle and an order. That everything happens for a reason, and we are better for the process.
A few months ago I went on a date with a boy in my neighborhood. He spoke in Spanish and had the loveliest baby face. We met along the Hudson. It was humid, and I could feel the sweat bubbles forming underneath my eyes and on my upper lip. I was self-conscious. Anxious. It was the week of a million breakouts. My face was blotchy, red, and dry. I should've have put on that cream. I should have let it take its natural course.
It was an hour of applying coverup before I was satisfied. I didn't want to go. I wanted to cancel. But I also wanted to meet this boy. Our texts had been sarcastic and witty. Playful and flirty. I didn't want to be disappointed. I didn't want him to be disappointed. So I went.
It was the evening but not dark enough to cover the fear on my face. I wasn't myself. I didn't want him to look at my me. What a strange first impression I must have made. Makeup slipping down my cheeks. I tried not to touch it. I'm sure this all seems terribly vain, but it is a very superficial world. I wish it wasn't.
But we talked, walked, and laughed. Sarcasm bouncing between us. And mid-kiss (there were a lot of really great kisses), he shared with me that beautiful idea. I made him repeat it again and again. And then again in Spanish, the words rolling off of his tongue. It felt like magic. I wish he had written it down.
He never asked me on a second date after that. I'm not surprised. I was not myself.
I thought of this idea two nights ago, waiting for my guy-of-the-moment (M) to text, disappointed that he hadn't. I wondered if maybe the two dates with M were all it was supposed to be. I did feel more confidant from having met him. Confidant in my charm and comfortable with my body. This thought made me less anxious about the future. More excited about the present.
So in a moment of loneliness, I reached out to baby face.
The next day I saw him in the coffee shop next to my building. I was in a really good place, confident and tan. Seeing him gave me closure. I don't yet understand what this unexpected encounter means, and maybe I never will. All I know is that he gave me this perfect thought. And maybe that is enough.
François-Henri Galland
It was fear that found me there
by the river.
I covered up my face
in laughter,
clever and cautious,
stemming from
a voice, internal.
Infernal,
the battle,
so self-sabotaging.
And the sarcasm,
It stuck to my lips like honey,
flushed in the peak of flirtation.
And anxiety,
stepping past sincerity,
It hit all the right notes.
With the opening
of the sky,
and us, wrapped in rain,
you shared a perfect Thought,
circular and soft.
It's the one
I repeat
now in my mind.
Eyes blinded,
your words, ephemeral.
Not mine.
But to remember
is not the same
as the wind
and your fingers,
brushing
across
the
crest
of my wrist.
Rainy smiles.
Intentionally,
my hips met yours.
Now, no longer
pretending,
in the sun,
in the silence,
only the itch remains.
I have
a specific affinity
for bro-y bars,
guys with grey cars,
names that end in Rs—
like Roger.
I like guys that are awkward,
green shirts and glasses,
their watches are plastic,
don't carry condoms
in their wallets,
but call on the phone
to say hi
just because
they’re alone.
Guys with dimples
imperfect pimples.
Everything is
somewhat simple
when they smile.
They like to
take walks,
give midnight kisses
on the swings,
missteps
in all directions,
missed moments,
missed connections.
They eat
oranges
like candy
in the morning.
They are good
with their hands.
They
have no idea
why my eyes
look sad
why I’d rather
sit in bars
alone,
stay at home
reciting Sylvia Plath
poems
in my sleep.
I’m really not
that deep.
Never Seen You Get So Low; by Aquilo
there is beauty
in imperfections
scars
and melancholia
a tangible reality
ever-present fatality
poised
in humanity
a skin
that is perfectly imperfect
and entirely
ephemeral
where nothing
is itself.
Georgia O'Keeffe
Clare Rojas @clarerojasart
I read
this short story in my first creative writing class. Poignant and beautiful. I wonder if moments like this exist. This is the last scene in the story.
Crazy Glue
"I got home early. I said ‘Hi’ as I walked in, but there was no reply. I went through all the rooms in the house. She wasn’t in any of them. On the kitchen table I found the tube of glue, completely empty. I tried to move one of the chairs, to sit down. It didn’t budge. I tried again. Not an inch. She’d glued it to the floor. The fridge wouldn’t open. She’d glued it shut. I didn’t understand what was happening, what would make her do such a thing. I didn’t know where she was. I went into the living-room to call her mother’s. I couldn’t lift the receiver; she’d glued that too. I kicked the table and almost broke my toe. It didn’t even budge.
And then I heard her laughing. It was coming from somewhere above me. I looked up, and there she was, standing barefoot on the living room ceiling.
I stared openmouthed. When I found my voice I could only ask, ‘What the hell… are you out of your mind?’
She didn’t answer, just smiled. Her smile seemed so natural, with her hanging upside-down like that, as if her lips were just stretching on their own by the sheer force of gravity.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll get you down,’ I said, hurrying to the shelf and grabbing the largest books. I made a tower of encyclopedia volumes and clambered on top of the pile.
‘This may hurt a little,’ I said, trying to keep my balance. She went on smiling. I pulled as hard as I could, but nothing happened. Carefully, I climbed down.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I’ll get the neighbours or something. I’ll go next door and call for help.’
‘Fine,’ she laughed. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’
I laughed too. She was so pretty, and so incongruous, hanging upside-down from the ceiling that way. With her long hair dangling downwards, and her breasts moulded like two perfect teardrops under her white T-shirt. So pretty. I climbed back up onto the pile of books and kissed her. I felt her tongue on mine. The books tumbled out from under my feet, but I stayed floating in midair, hanging just from her lips."
-Etgar Keret, The Girl on the Fridge
I'm a lover
I’m a lover without a lover.
I’m lovely and lonely.
I belong deeply to myself.
Maude Rinehart and William Schmidt
34 Excuses For Why We Failed At Love
1. I’m lonely so I do lonely things
2. Loving you was like going to war; I never came back the same.
3. You hate women, just like your father and his father, so it runs in your blood.
4. I was wandering the derelict car park of your heart looking for a ride home.
5. You’re a ghost town I’m too patriotic to leave.
6. I stay because you’re the beginning of the dream I want to remember.
7. I didn’t call him back because he likes his girls voiceless.
8. It’s not that he wants to be a liar; it’s just that he doesn’t know the truth.
9. I couldn’t love you, you were a small war.
10. We covered the smell of loss with jokes.
11. I didn’t want to fail at love like our parents.
12. You made the nomad in me build a house and stay.
13. I’m not a dog.
14. We were trying to prove our blood wrong.
15. I was still lonely so I did even lonelier things.
16. Yes, I’m insecure, but so was my mother and her mother.
17. No, he loves me he just makes me cry a lot.
18. He knows all of my secrets and still wants to kiss me.
19. You were too cruel to love for a long time.
20. It just didn’t work out.
21. My dad walked out one afternoon and never came back.
22. I can’t sleep because I can still taste him in my mouth.
23. I cut him out at the root, he was my favorite tree, rotting, threatening the foundations of my home.
24. The women in my family die waiting.
25. Because I didn’t want to die waiting for you.
26. I had to leave, I felt lonely when he held me.
27. You’re the song I rewind until I know all the words and I feel sick.
28. He sent me a text that said “I love you so bad.”
29. His heart wasn’t as beautiful as his smile
30. We emotionally manipulated one another until we thought it was love.
31. Forgive me, I was lonely so I chose you.
32. I’m a lover without a lover.
33. I’m lovely and lonely.
34. I belong deeply to myself.
-Warsan Shire
Just a Boy, Angus & Julia Stone. A brother and sister duo from Sydney. A song. So beautifully optimistic. So tragically unrealistic. Makes me want to have a whimsical, wonderful drunk-on-smiles kind of love. Something playful. Something simple. Magic in your arms. If it was up to me, I'd never let you go.
Her shirt reminds me of unicorns and Lisa Frank. also sour Skittles.
In Swimming
water constructs the
perfect sculpture
of limbs,
extending
far below the ears
as ripples reflect
off unmovable walls.
It is her meditation,
her form of self
examination
not self-deprecation.
Thrown into the flows,
pushing past
the ebbs of self-devotion,
she hears things
she's not supposed
to hear,
sees things
she's not supposed
to fear, but
in the density
of the water
(or in the magic)
she floats fragile
on the surface.
Little whispers
grazing at her feet,
they're warm
in the sun,
so safe,
to be outside
the status quo.
In weightlessness
she feels so
unencumbered
by the thoughts
within her mind,
They cannot
reach her
in this vastly
moving
Sea
@annstreetstudio @bulgarihotels
Water
The water understands
Civilization well;
It wets my foot, but prettily,
It chills my life, but wittily,
It is not disconcerted,
It is not broken-hearted:
Well used, it decketh joy,
Adorneth, doubleth joy:
Ill used, it will destroy,
In perfect time and measure
With a face of golden pleasure
Elegantly destroy.
-Ralph Waldo Emerson
@tomaszgudzowaty
Water
I am the guest of a prince. I stay at his palace and share my room with two other talents. The three of us are unique and in demand. We are each 10 stories tall. We do what we do and what no one else does. Our limbs are a hike, folding path over glory. I wake up one morning and look out the window. An ocean has appeared. Its surface, 10 stories above me, the sun just arriving. A reef reaching towards me through clear blue water crystallized by morning’s shimmer. A surface broken by shadows, underneath what appear to be cliffs. The ocean bottom, as deep as I am from the surface, 10 stories below. I am 10 stories above. 10 is where we meet. I look down. A horse is swimming into view. Its mane whipped by morning wind-water. The horse is alone for an instant. Free for a few kicks. Then a rider appears on its back. Instantly not free. The rider is a tourist on an underwater swimming tour, where the horse does all the swimming. I turn my head and see more enter the frame. 10 more. 10 signifying more than height, horse or story. Against the blue-green water, the ocean bottom is visible. Horse and rider float. 10 stories above me. In slow-motion, sounds like. But that’s because storyteller remains in the story. They swim away. The water clears as if almost to disappear. My eyes adjust and see 10 surfer punks relaxing at the bottom of the ocean. They wear cut-off jeans and shorts. Some have t-shirts some don’t. They are relaxing in chaise lounges on the bottom of the floor, getting sun tans through the crystal clear water. Every few seconds, one of them swims up to the surface for a gulp of air and swims back down. The scene is a constant yo-yoing of bodies going up and down. Swimming with hands to sides, long hair flowing behind, air bubbles tracing their destination. Up and down. Up and down. A hypnosis of breath and water. A reward at bottom and at top. A kind of water that lets this happen. A kind of animal doing what nothing else can.
-Edwin Torres
on the Chester River
this is just to say
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
-William Carlos Williams