I find pieces of myself everywhere, and I cut myself handling them.Jeanette Winterson, Lighthousekeeping (via larmoyante)
(via oldmanflower)
Instead of writing; or, Monday morning
I ate an entire sleeve of Saltines. I searched for photographs of icebound ships. I thought of the way her smile sometimes makes her eyes look sad. I stood at the window, wondering what these trees are called. I copied out every book title mentioned in Dublinesque. I sorted the books on my desk into two stacks, those I want to read now and those I want to have already read. I found my cat, pet her. I walked into the hallway, paused, turned back to my room, turned again, filled a glass with water. I framed a postcard. I thought about the etymological connection between disaster and astronomy. I put on a sweater. I thought of how much easier it is to walk away. I considered shadows. I considered horizons. I shuffled a stack of papers, moved it, then returned it to its initial spot on my desk. I checked each of my email accounts. I saw the same link posted by different people on different websites. I considered self-portraiture. I thought about how Laurie Sheck’s A Monster’s Notes doesn’t seem to be read. I grew sad about distance. I wondered at the look of intense concentration on the face of a pedestrian on the sidewalk below. I saw the fog lift, the sky lighten and darken again. I wished to have another mind, to be capable of another style. Instead of writing, I wrote.
It’s ok, said Herakles. His voice washedAnne Carson - Autobiography of Red
Geryon open.
(…)
Something black and heavy dropped
between them, like a smell of velvet.
Herakles switched on the ignition and they jumped forward onto the back of the night.
Not touching
but joined in astonishment as two cuts lie parallel in the same flesh.
You hold an absenceRichard Brostoff, from “Grief” (via proustitute)
at your center,
as if it were a life.
Igor Melnikov - Anno Domini
He did not gesticulate.Anne Carson - Autobiography of Red
He did not knock on the glass. He waited. Small, red, and upright he waited,
gripping his new bookbag tight
in one hand and touching a lucky penny inside his coat pocket with the other,
while the first snows of winter
floated down on his eyelashes an covered the branches around him and silenced
all trace of the world.
The birds don’t alter space.
They reveal it. The sky
never fills with any
leftover flying. They leave
nothing to trace. It is our own
astonishment collects
in chill air.
Li-Young Lee
excerpt from “Praise Them” (Book of my Nights)
(Quelle: panhala.net, via kdecember)
As if the water that I amJohn Brehm, from “Supplication at the River” (via proustitute)
might find a better form,
rise above, in a body composed
of something other than lust and sorrow,
or simply slip down into this water,
which atones, and forgets, and need not speak.
Kyle Thompson, also on Tumblr
Matthew Nienow, It’s the boat that haunts you (via soulclapitshandsandsing)And so it is, the boat has come to own you,
has learned to speak a language you cannot helpbut agree with, its voice the dark lapping
of water against the hull, its song the windin the stays while you sleep, dreaming of a bowsprit
to hold you against the waves…”
(Quelle: nereview.com, via kdecember)
