hello. the photos are my own. as are the words, unless credited otherwise.
i'm twenty-five years old on a good day and the sun burns freckles into my shoulders.
i'm an aquarius. we're well known as intractable, contrary, perverse, unpredictable, unemotional, and detached. and those are just the good things.
i like living life through a lens, white rooms, the doctor, hardwood floors, imperial white peach white tea (rip), dried fruit snacks, waking up early, agritainment, goblin market, five six seven o'clock shadows, yellow kitchens, antique malls, scarf weather, woody guthrie, aloe vera, rainy days, cold bedsheets, watership down and the velveteen rabbit, westerns, craft fairs, maritime provinces, big wool socks, slum wine, porch swings, camping, nick cave, shoulders, the written word, cuts and bruises, clean dishes, alphonse mucha, boots, big teeth, cheap whiskey, czech novelists, dive bars, profanities, gold costume jewelry, low saturation in real life, the idea of lumberjacks, and pear flavored apple sauce.
i'm twenty-five years old on a good day and the sun burns freckles into my shoulders.
i'm an aquarius. we're well known as intractable, contrary, perverse, unpredictable, unemotional, and detached. and those are just the good things.
i like living life through a lens, white rooms, the doctor, hardwood floors, imperial white peach white tea (rip), dried fruit snacks, waking up early, agritainment, goblin market, five six seven o'clock shadows, yellow kitchens, antique malls, scarf weather, woody guthrie, aloe vera, rainy days, cold bedsheets, watership down and the velveteen rabbit, westerns, craft fairs, maritime provinces, big wool socks, slum wine, porch swings, camping, nick cave, shoulders, the written word, cuts and bruises, clean dishes, alphonse mucha, boots, big teeth, cheap whiskey, czech novelists, dive bars, profanities, gold costume jewelry, low saturation in real life, the idea of lumberjacks, and pear flavored apple sauce.
Its chilly outside. Forty three degrees and the sky is slate grey. Dawn begins to cast her first shadowy light as I finish my hot cup of tea, sweetened with rich, golden honey. I’ve been sitting in this window sill for some time now. Watching the lightning illuminate the dark street, the puddles filling with an onslaught of rain drops. I take one last drag of the wet spring air and close the window. Pulling my oversized cardigan closed, I pad softly down to the kitchen in thick wool socks and place the cup in the sink. The sound of porcelain against old ceramic rings louder than I expected and I begin feeling a bit trapped.
The air outside is still damp, but the rain is no longer falling and a firm clap of thunder invites me outside. I shove my feet in loosely laced Bean boots that are always waiting by the door and stumble outside. I’ve made my way halfway down the sleepy block before noticing that I haven’t even bothered to put pants on. It’s Sunday and the world will be slow to rise, so I dismiss my bare legs and tug on the bottom of my sweater a bit.
I’m so much more at home in this desolate quiet. My hands are still as the solitude envelopes me. A solitude that will surely end with the coming light. Somewhere over my shoulder, the trees begin to hum and I’m reminded that no matter how alone I am, I’m constantly surrounded by pulsing thriving screaming life.
Take it from me, you’re a quirky and interesting girl with a lot to offer the world. If you were anything less than that, I wouldn’t have bothered with you at all, yet you’ve become one of the most important people in my life. Don’t keep that mind to yourself, it’s selfish of you.
- D
I love no one but you, I have discovered, but you are far away and I am here alone. Then this is my life and maybe, however unlikely, I’ll find my way back there. Or maybe, one day, I’ll settle for second best. And on that same day, hell will freeze over, the sun will burn out and the stars will fall from the sky.
it’s the first night of spring. the air whips warm around my naked shoulders and the wet earth swallows my toes. i want to stand here forever with my eyes closed, quiet and still. my lips burn and that slow ache in my chest when i breathe lingers, but i want to go on like this forever.
i tense my muscles and prepare to run. i have no destination and the waning crescent moon is giving off little light for me to see where i’m going, but i don’t mind.the night is quiet enough for me to hear the soft earth fall back to the ground as i launch myself into the unknown. i run and run, weaving a rough path between tree limbs and fallen logs until my lungs burn, until my feet bleed. i finally stop when my body gives out from beneath me and i collapse to my knees just steps before catapulting myself into a night-blackened pool of gently rolling crests.
i feel myself land sharply on a rock, but i hardly notice the pain or the light trickle of warm blood i’ve conjured. i crawl the rest of the way to the bank and splash the cool water on my face. a twig snaps in the distance. i turn my ear in that direction, but i hear nothing more so i lower myself the rest of the way to the ground. i pull my long tangles of hair over my shoulder and attempt to comb through the windswept waves with my fingers as my breathing slows. i want to lay here forever with my eyes closed, quiet and still. my heart aches and my fingertips burn without the constant contact with your flesh, but i want to go on like this forever.
You are beautiful like demolition. Just the thought of you draws my knuckles white. I don’t need a god. I have you and your beautiful mouth, your hands holding onto me, the nails leaving unfelt wounds, your hot breath on my neck. The taste of your saliva. The darkness is ours. The nights belong to us.
last night i laid in bed, staring at my ceiling as i bit dead skin from my swollen lower lip and pulled my age soft and thread bare heather grey t-shirt over my breasts. i pressed my fingers into my skin, trying to feel the inside of my rib cage. i left half-moon imprints and tender purple bruises along my torso to remind myself that i am here; i can’t just squeeze myself into non-existence. i woke up this morning warm, satisfied with my sore soft spots and the whisper of another cool, quiet day of doing little more than simply being.
Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.
- Margery Williams, The Velveteen Rabbit: Or How Toys Become Real
when i lick my lips, i wonder what they’d taste like to you. bittersweet? like they do for me now. no more essence of rose and wonderment. when i breathe, does it carry in the wind to you? or does it break apart in the atmosphere around me, never nearing you, never to dance across your skin like i thought it would every morning of our lives together? when you turn a corner, do you catch the slightest air of my scent? does it delicately pull at your heart and remind you of something you can’t quite place, because i’m but a whisper in your memory?when you pay for your coffee, are her hands familiar? slight and soft, her wrists almost breakable. and does it make you yearn for mine, on your shoulder, on your spine? when you wake with a start in the middle of the night, when you sweep the back of your hand across your damp forehead, when you throw the sheets aside and place your feet on the cold hard floor, do you ache like i do?
I just had a dream that I was raising bees and they made their home in drinking glasses that were fast filling with honey. When the three glasses were full, the bees began hibernating inside the honey. After a few days, the bees began looking like swollen black kidney beans. And after a few more days, the little bee beans began sprouting hair. Little by little, the honey began to disappear until the three glasses tumbled over and out rolled tiny black kittens, smelling of honey. And in the back of their throats, instead of a purr, they buzzed.
shouting.
romance is a philadelphia dive bar, whiskey, gogol bordello, and a spin and a dip and a kiss from a stranger.
and also, “You definitely are not the feeling type. I think you’re rather emotionless. You always have been.”
And then he said, “I dreamt about you two or three days ago. We were in a room, disarming bombs. Hundreds of them. Then a guide came and took us down to a basement where we worked on a particularly difficult one, but succeeded. I must have been talking to you the whole time, and all I can remember you saying is the word NO. Then we went back upstairs and someone tossed a bomb into the room. We could not diffuse it, so I managed to break a window with a crowbar and toss the bomb out. It detonated and a train overturned. We were close for some time. What does it mean? I have long held the belief that meaning exists where consciousness and time collide. Only at these two points does anything matter.”
