SINCE 2010-2014

(send me asks please; tell me something beautiful that happened after you woke up)

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You know, they straightened out the Mississippi River in places, to make room for houses and livable acreage. Occasionally the river floods these places. “Floods” is the word they use, but in fact it is not flooding; it is remembering. Remembering where it used to be. All water has a perfect memory and is forever trying to get back to where it was. Writers are like that: remembering where we were, what valley we ran through, what the banks were like, the light that was there and the route back to our original place. It is emotional memory — what the nerves and the skin remember as well as how it appeared. And a rush of imagination if is our “flooding.” Excerpt from “The Site of Memory,” Toni Morrison, What Moves at the Margin: Selected Nonfiction
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nogreatillusion:

I wanted to see where beauty comes from
without you in the world, hauling my heart
across sixty acres of northeast meadow,
my pockets filling with flowers.
Then I remembered,
it’s you I miss in the brightness
and body of every living name:
rattlebox, yarrow, wild vetch.
You are the green wonder of June,
root and quasar, the thirst for salt.
When I finally understand that people fail
at love, what is left but cinquefoil, thistle,
the paper wings of the dragonfly
aeroplaning the soul with a sudden blue hilarity?
If I get the story right, desire is continuous,
equatorial. There is still so much
I want to know: what you believe
can never be removed from us,
what you dreamed on Walnut Street
in the unanswerable dark of your childhood,
learning pleasure on your own.
Tell me our story: are we impetuous,
are we kind to each other, do we surrender
to what the mind cannot think past?
Where is the evidence I will learn
to be good at loving?
The black dog orbits the horseshoe pond
for treefrogs in their plangent emergencies.
There are violet hills,
there is the covenant of duskbirds.
The moon comes over the mountain
like a big peach, and I want to tell you
what I couldn’t say the night we rushed
North, how I love the seriousness of your fingers
and the way you go into yourself,
calling my half-name like a secret.
I stand between taproot and treespire.
Here is the compass rose
to help me live through this.
Here are twelve ways of knowing
what blooms even in the blindness
of such longing. Yellow oxeye,
viper’s bugloss with its set of pink arms
pleading do not forget me.
We hunger for eloquence.
We measure the isopleths.
I am visiting my life with reckless plenitude.
The air is fragrant with tiny strawberries.
Fireflies turn on their electric wills:
an effulgence. Let me come back
whole, let me remember how to touch you
before it is too late.

— Stacie Cassarino, Summer Solstice

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Q: after i woke up i had blueberry cheesecake, unpacked things, thought about all the people i'd hugged yesterday night. there's a wedding on right now, and earlier there were people playing instruments on the usually-empty rooftop parking lot opposite my bedroom window. so much celebration in every corner of this life, all the time, every day, always.

you, along with a few others, are the ones i keep in contact here. i’m publishing this because i want everyone else to know: when i think of soft, i think of you; when i want to be soft, i imitate you. world, meet june.

IN RESPONSE TO: THIS


asked by letters-to-nobody
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If I can’t add any light to the light, I moralize into my diary, I’ll do the second-best thing, which is to be silent. Sarah Manguso, from How to deal with writer’s block
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11 Things I Should Have Said

1. I’m sorry.

2. I have more fingers than people I trust, and I am not one of those people.

3. I have more hands than times I’ve seen men admit they are scared. Manhood is a funny thing. The intrigue of standing tall swallows your skin and all of the sudden keeping ones spine intact becomes more important than the truth.

4. You are a fucking liar too and I hate you for it. You fucked him (and him and him) and I fucked her (and her and her)…but I’d forgive you for things I wouldn’t dream of forgiving myself for.

5. You’re fucking beautiful.

6. I have more lovers but less love now than ever before. Nonetheless, the eyes you watch me with are the blood-orange French kiss of hunger + caramel womanhood, and I want nothing other than to spend with you the nights that slur themselves into the morning. The ones with the full moons and werewolfed eyes.

7. Just know, baby, that I used to wake up without a clue as to which way was up or down. To be or not to be, to dream or to drown. You ended all that and attached my feet to the ground. God, how you walk like a teethed sun—like lions done raised you. I’ve still got rise to rule the jungle together.

8. The last time we had sex your hips made Picasso out of my neck (and then my waist) like love literally didn’t exist before the second I tasted it in my mouth that night. You uninvented time when you climbed on top of me.

9. X XXXX XXX. XXX XXXX XXX.

10. I’d probably quit smoking if you asked me to.

11. Hearts are still something like sweatshirts. When you leave them in someone else’s home for too long, well, it’s not completely yours anymore.

Miles Hodges, 11 Things I Should Have Said
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Have you had enough wide?
No. Enough earth? No.

Enough water? No, not nearly enough.
Enough dirt to walk on?

No. Never, never.

"Darkness Poem" in Have You Had Enough Darkness Yet? by Irene McKinney
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And I understand. I understand why people hold hands: I’d always thought it was about possessiveness, saying ‘This is mine’. But it’s about maintaining contact. It is about speaking without words. It is about I want you with me and don’t go. She Was Always Holding My Hand 
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Q: How can one manage to be happy with so much sadness and confusion in this world?

commovente:

mm. i’m not a very happy person as much as i am a very hopeful person. you gotta let yourself feel it all. the brief moments of happiness. the long blues. the white fuzz of uncertainty. experience all of it, but always with this final clear coat of hopefulness to soften every tiny and magnificent emotion that runs its course through you. 


asked by Anonymous
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"to rest was to receive all aspects of the world without judgement. a bath in the sea […] tenderness towards the unknown and anonymous, which was a tenderness to the self."

— the english patient, m. ondaatje

but there is no rest. at night, i do not read by the living room because the stillness is too imposing; to read alone has become too lonely. or rather the quiet and its tendencies makes you too aware. growing attachment. people. trickling time. like a ghost, it is now that fragment to which the mind remembers over and over. i wonder: at what point do women allow men to enter into their peace? at what point do friendships make you hopeful?

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You do things and do things and nobody really has a clue. John Updike, Rabbit, Run
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alexihobbs:

Thunder and lightning in Summerland, 2012
colecmc:


i hate the beach
35mm

L’Amour, l’Après-midi (1972) Dir. Éric Rohmer
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