anonymous asked:

Her beatifal locks draped over her shoulders, caskadng around he face in a briliant way. Her eyes locked in mine, orbs pounding into my own eyes. She sassily flipped her hair, perfectionn reeking out of every pore. She was perfect. She leant close to my ear, whispering in it gentile, yet firmly. Her voice made my insides freeze and blood to rush to my cheeks as she said, "I'm not Dan Howell."

Omg I love this

“Wild with all Regrets” by Wilfred Owen

I came across this poem today while wandering through my room, looking in bookshelves, pilfering. I thought a lot about Sammy, and I thought about Aimee, and all the people I’ve excommunicated from my life at one time or another, and how terrible that is, and I thought about this universe, how chaotic it seems at the moment. During this thinking I was reminded of a song too. It’s the last track on side two of The Brakes - The Beatific Visions. The song is “No Return” and title is almost enough. There are so many things we can’t return to, and sometimes when we’re reminded of that, a quick pang goes through us, and we pause for a second. Part of the chorus reads, “The pain of being together is more than being apart…It’s why I’m leaving,” so that stayed with me for awhile. If you read the poem below, or listen to the song tonight, I hope you find solace, or are reminded of something vital, or go out and try to make someone happy instead of yourself, because it’s always better to be hurt, than to hurt someone else, but sometimes we can’t help it. It’s always better to express how you feel when in a more solid state. Goodnight. I love you all.   


To Siegfried Sassoon

My arms have mutinied against me – brutes!
My fingers fidget like ten idle brats,
My back’s been stiff for hours, damned hours.
Death never gives his squad a Stand-at-ease.
I can’t read. There: it’s no use. Take your book.
A short life and a merry one, my buck!
We said we’d hate to grow dead old. But now,
Not to live old seems awful: not to renew
My boyhood with my boys, and teach ‘em hitting,
Shooting and hunting, – all the arts of hurting!
– Well, that’s what I learnt. That, and making money.
Your fifty years in store seem none too many;
But I’ve five minutes. God! For just two years
To help myself to this good air of yours!
One Spring! Is one too hard to spare? Too long?
Spring air would find its own way to my lung,
And grow me legs as quick as lilac-shoots.

Yes, there’s the orderly. He’ll change the sheets
When I’m lugged out, oh, couldn’t I do that?
Here in this coffin of a bed, I’ve thought
I’d like to kneel and sweep his floors for ever, –
And ask no nights off when the bustle’s over,
For I’d enjoy the dirt; who’s prejudiced
Against a grimed hand when his own’s quite dust, –
Less live than specks that in the sun-shafts turn?
Dear dust, – in rooms, on roads, on faces’ tan!
I’d love to be a sweep’s boy, black as Town;
Yes, or a muckman. Must I be his load?
A flea would do. If one chap wasn’t bloody,
Or went stone-cold, I’d find another body.

Which I shan’t manage now. Unless it’s yours.
I shall stay in you, friend, for some few hours.
You’ll feel my heavy spirit chill your chest,
And climb your throat on sobs, until it’s chased
On sighs, and wiped from off your lips by wind.

I think on your rich breathing, brother, I’ll be weaned
To do without what blood remained me from my wound.

Beautiful Words

Written by Abigail // Photo by Natalie Liao

Language is something that never fails to amaze me; the way words are used and combined to conjure up different images and emotions is something that to me is not dissimilar to magic. I’m an avid reader, and I always find myself underlining phrases and scribbling down words which I find interesting, and I’ve ended up with a list of ten words which I strive to use more often.

Keep reading

In all these privileges — in the hypostatic union, in the Beatific Vision of God, in the fullness of grace — the absolute freedom of Christ from sin is based : the soul of Jesus was not only actually free from all sin, but it was incapable of committing sin, and not susceptible of even the slightest breath or shadow of sin. Thus Christ as man is “the Saint of saints” (Dan. 9, 24). — From this infinite dignity and holiness of our High priest, Jesus Christ, proceeds the infinite value of all His labors and sufferings, of all His merits and satisfactions during His mortal life.

Nikolaus  Gihr The holy sacrifice of the mass; dogmatically, liturgically and ascetically explained 


       Fragile bones ache; thin fingers work at buttons of a sleeve.
     Steve’s wrists CREAK with the effort to just get through the day.

But— Bucky? Bucky’s ready to go. Another date,
   ANOTHER cherubic face and beatific painted smile.

      Through the haze of exhaustion Steve makes out
      the name and place. Geraldine, and some prominent
      godforsaken dance club.  Enough, ENOUGH, ENOUGH.

You go on ahead,” Steve voice drags out of him like
when Bucky smokes on the fire escape. The slow burn
in Steve’s lungs is enough to make him light headed.

I am not an automaton. (why I cut/ why I decided to stop)

For the first time in nearly seven years, I saw my arms for the first time.

A novice voyage surveying the scarified, sacrificed landscape that I have become. Flesh over wrought with twisted, dystopian topiaries of staple scars and shiny sharkskin keloids rising like yeasted dough off the Ivory Coast of my appendages. Stitch marks shining like runny Rudolph noses through shower steam like patterns of eyelet skirts and awl holes. Owl eyes and entry wounds.

After seven years, I have finally seen my own body. I have seen it for what it is: self created wreckage; a wounded, healing memorial of stigmatic scabs without novenas without beatifications. No benedictions. No wisdom. No more aves or halos hemorrhaging deeply from the lung of a spring in Lourdes.

Goodbye to the razor god, farewell to Icarus flying too close to the sun frequenting emergency rooms begging for pink slips and sectionings and the silent wheeling of stretchers in dead air space like bicycles rolling through post apocalyptic carnage collecting baby teeth like baseball cards up my sleeves.

Adam and Eve suddenly aware of their own nudity, the veil of modesty, of dissociation stripped away like a flimsy, theistic veil, banishing myself from blades like Gala apples and pomegranates eviscerated

one by one.

I saw the damage I had done and, for once, I returned back into my body,.

Once, I asked Jay why I felt like a non human. Why I am static and ceiling spackle and hypertrophic scythes disconnected from handles. Why I am an appliance come undone, unplugged, slouching in my existential scoliosis,.AM I EVEN REAL? I shouted and the paintings of bucolic landscapes rattled in their glass enclosures like air raid sirens screaming and ghosts do not make noise

but I have been dead for some time.

According to Jay, because of my sexual assault, the severity of my trauma, my complete and utter state of dissociation during the event, I “left” my body and have been detached from it for nearly seven years. A decapitated head. A red balloon floating just feet above razor wire, A spectral lady in white hovering over bed sides like a harbinger trapped between this life and the next.

During my trauma, I lost myself and was never found., An unreported kidnapping of a soul unpublished on the spine of a milk carton.

it took a moment of realization, a moment of reincarnation in order to realize my own barbarity; the sheer sickness of my self abuse. 

Rape taught me that I am a thing, not a person. I am a ragdoll to be positioned, to be shoved and touched and penetrated and I have carried that ingested core belief with me for nearly seven years. The violence inflicted upon me has schooled me that I am deserving of violence,  I am a thing to be abused.

This body was his body, but it has never felt like mine..

I split from myself during rape in order to survive it, but I have never been reunited with my own physical self since. I do not recognize my face in mirrors. I do not undress myself without thoughts of him, without the tensile traipsing of traumatized tarantulas up the abacus of my spine.

Chery picker, shell shocker.

I will carry this with me forever.

I am just waking up in a minefield, in an over ripe banana slip marked with sepia fingerprints and paper clip cuts. It is unbeautiful, but it is necessary for my survival.

Dissociation is how I have kept myself alive for so long, how I have sustained my soul by watching her slash herself to baptismal candy cane remnants all over the interior of her car before the police arrived, before the white noise hum of exhaust fumes turned into a screeching cacophony of police sirens. It taught me how to cope with rape, with the lonely bedridden aftermath of shaking for months and bathing at four PM. It taught me how to look through people who looked at me.

Being raped caused me to distance myself so far from the area code of myself that it seemed perfectly acceptable to sit down and open veins like college acceptance letters. Tearing tissues and turning myself inside out was a way to spend a morose, macabre Monday. What am I good for except for pornography and snuff films?

I have seen her rape play out time and time again. Her rubber limbs.  Her lovely bones carved into broken China dolls by his hands.

But like a rebirth, a reentry into a country from which I have been an expatriate, I am finding that this body has been my own all along, the veil of dissociation stripped away, I am not made of rubber. I am tissue and tendon, not some anthropomorphic crash test dummy to be ejected through sugar spun windshields on the highway like Princess Diana’s final moments. I am a girl, not a tragedy.

Seven years later, she is still the scared, sacred girl on the mattress and I am her older, more jaded, cynical self. I am her only savior and abuser and she and I are blanket friends and I tell myself I need to save her from him before it is too late. I need to intercede on my own behalf. In nightmares, watching anarchy unfold.

But it is too late. Like trying to ward off hexes and head colds and the onslaught of a slit throat crimson autumn, he comes anyway.

Now the work begins. Now that I am occupying my own frame like Wall Street, this rickety body of collateral damage, I am small boned and fearful, This victimized shell he touched, he broke into like a derelict hotel room years later still begging for exorcisms, This apartment of my soul from which I have tried for nearly seven years to evict myself with pills and pain and the leaking of adipose tissue on divans and mint green bathroom tiles.

I must learn to live in this damaged, survivor flesh as my own. I must reclaim this body, this bread, the evaporation of this wine still pulling shrapnel from my hair.

For the first time in seven years, I am returning into my body

and it is the most

beautiful form

of bleeding.

I will carry this with me forever.


♦♦♦♦♦  OKTOBERFEST - A Mario Götze One-Shot ♦♦♦♦♦


My boyfriend had just returned home. With a beatific smile on his face. I already hated that stupid grin. I was doing like I had seen nothing but he gradually approached me while I was sitting on the couch with a book in my hands. “Hello beautiful” Mario sits down next to me, the smile still on his lips.

He put his lips on my cheek, I saw him of the corner of eye but I didn’t react. “You know I love you” he whispered in my ear, he was so cute. not entirely. Indeed, when Mario told me all this, it meant that he wanted to ask me something, I knew my boyfriend on the fingertips. 

He did all these kinds of noises that were unbearable. I hated when he did that. He stared at me with his stupid smile and it had the gift of my nerves. “What the fuck you want from me ?” I dropped my book and I looked at him with an irritated look. He started to laugh, I really began to worry.

Mario started to laugh, I really began to worry but he quickly became serious. “No, Olivia, I have something to propose you” I hated when Mario told me he wanted to propose me something because usually I will not like that something. “I’m listening, Götze” he had the right I listen, it was the minimum of respect.

But instead of telling me directly what he wanted to offer me, he stood up and paced in the living room. “I know you don’t like parties and all that goes with it but …” He did not finish his sentence, I didn’t know what he expected but I decided to watch him with insistence. “I’d like you to come with me to the Oktoberfest, Olivia, please” he finished his sentence.

That was true, I hated parties even regional parties. The only parties that I liked were Christmas, birthdays of people I liked and Halloween .. And then, as I didn’t come from München, I wasn’t celebrating Oktoberfest. But on reflection, perhaps it could be good. “I agree to go with you” I replied with a grin. Mario did all that cinema to ask me to come with him there. 

He was happy that I come with him that he kissed me languidly. “You’re the best, my love” he whispered in my ear. I knew it. No I’m kidding, of course. “I bought you a dirndl” Pity oh no ! I hated that outfit, I found it too … Bavarian. Although I have nothing against this region, I knew I wouldn’t be comfortable in this outfit. 

When Mario saw my face was decomposed, he knew in advance that it doesn’t please me. But he tried anyway. He went to get the dirndl in his car. He was clever, very clever ! He came back a few seconds later with the traditional dress. “How do you find it ?” he asked me, showing me the dirndl.

I don’t really know what to think. It was beautiful but I don’t imagine myself wearing this dress. The one he had chosen was a grenade color, really beautiful. “It’s so gorgeous” I was fascinated by the dress, it was beautiful, I couldn’t deny it. “But …” with me there’s always a but. “But ?” he looked at me, he didn’t understand what I meant.

I didn’t know how to tell him. “I don’t imagine me wearing it” I confessed, holding my hands one in the other, I did that when I was anxious. “Just try it, please, Oli” he handed me the dirndl, I couldn’t not try it because it was so sublime. “Okay” I confessed me defeated. 

A few minutes later, I went down to join Mario who had been in the living room the time that I put on this dress. When I got in front of him, he had no expression in his eyes, I couldn’t even know if I was silly or not. “You’re beautiful and wonderful ! All the other women will be jealous” he finally said. This compliment warmed my heart, it really made me happy that Mario told me such a thing. But that didn’t mean he was right.

I felt really silly in this dirndl. “That’s wrong ! I look stupid” I wasn’t at all agree with Mario, more I looked at myself in the mirror, more I feel ugly. Mario stood up from the sofa and came to me, he placed each of his hands on my hips and looked me straight in the eye, “Whatever what you wear, you will stay the best and most perfect of all women in this world” I loved when such words out of his mouth, he made me feel really lucky to have a man like him beside me.

I wrapped my hands around his neck and my lips touched his, I also liked the contact of our lips. “Thank you, Mario” I whispered. “So you come with me to the Oktoberfest ?” he looked me in the eyes, our noses touched. “Of course I’ll come with you, this could be fun” I replied with a smile. I didn’t like parties but I loved Mario, that’s all that matters.

Everything You Need to Know About The Beat Generation

The movement of writers known as the Beat Generation influenced all the important literary and musical movements in America that came after them, from the hippies of the 1960s to the punks of the 1970s to the grunge movement of the 1990s. The word “beat” refers to the musical term, as the Beats were highly influenced by music and improvisational jazz in particular, the idea of being beaten or worn down, and the concept of something beatific or holy. The Beats lived and wrote in the 1940s and ’50s and their writing was characterized by embracing jazz-influenced improvisation with words, spontaneity, and documenting their rebellious lifestyle. The Beats in particular have had a lasting influence on rock and roll music, with musicians including Jim Morrison, Bob Dylan, Patti Smith, Kurt Cobain, and many others naming Beat authors as key influences on their music.

Novelist and poet Jack Kerouac, poet Allen Ginsberg, and science fiction innovator William Burroughs are the three key members of the Beat generation. Their styles are each incredibly different, but the three men influenced each other through their friendships and editing each other’s works. Their open disdain for cultural norms and decision to embrace controversial things like illegal drugs, homosexuality, Eastern religions, jazz music, and hard travelin’ was a catalyst and a practical how-to guide for the 1960s counterculture.

The Beat Generation is undeniably one of the most important American literary movements ever. Here’s a list of the movement’s most important texts to help you get in touch with your inner poetic rebel and read some great American writers.

On the Road, Jack Kerouac

On the Road is probably the most canonical text of the Beat generation. Kerouac’s novel is basically a non-fiction account of his travels around the country with fellow writer and Beat generation muse Neal Cassady, with Ginsberg and Burroughs appearing as well. The original scroll version of the book has all the people’s real names, but the published version had their names changed. The tales told, though, were real events that took place between 1947 and 1950 when Kerouac’s life was essentially a giant cross-country road trip. The book has inspired many to make similar treks across the continent between the Beat capitals of New York City and San Francisco. The book also lays out Beat ethos to a T, explaining who they were, how they lived, and what they valued.

Naked Lunch, William Burroughs

Burroughs was like an older mentor to many of the Beats and his prose embraced a bizarre science fiction fantasy world that isn’t seen in the others of his generation, though it has influenced every science fiction dystopia created in literature or film after him. Naked Lunch is Burroughs’ most famous book, a semi-autobiographical account of a junkie named William Lee and his experiences drifting around America, Mexico, and Tangier before ending up in the fantasy world of Interzone. The book was banned in many locations after its 1959 publication due to extremely explicit content regarding sex and drug abuse. The plot of the novel is difficult to describe, with the character Lee taking on a variety of aliases and moving between locations and scenes without much explanation. In the introduction, Burroughs credits Kerouac with giving him the title, saying that naked lunch is “a frozen moment when everyone sees what is on the end of every fork.” The book is a terrifying piece of science fiction not for the faint of heart.

Howl, Allen Ginsberg

Ginsberg’s landmark 1956 poem Howl is considered one of the great American poems. Ginsberg meant for the poem to be a performance piece and the first reading of it at Six Gallery in San Francisco in 1955 is considered to be the moment that marked the beginning of the Beat movement. Though the members of that movement had been living its ethos and writing for years, Howl was the first major Beat work to be published.

Howl is dedicated to the writer Carl Solomon, who Ginsberg met during a brief stint in a mental institution in New York. The long, free-form poem was written in long lines that Ginsberg said were the length of his breath so that he could stop to breathe only between lines when reading it aloud. The poem’s writing was influenced by Kerouac’s insistence that Ginsberg experiment with being more spontaneous in his writing as well as reading the poetry of William Carlos Williams. Howl was famously the subject of an obscenity trial against publisher City Lights Books, but the judge ended up ruling that the poem was not obscene.

A Coney Island of the Mind, Lawrence Ferlinghetti

The Beat generation saw their works published by fellow writer Lawrence Ferlinghetti and his bookstore-publishing house City Lights in San Francisco. City Lights Books is still synonymous with the Beat generation and the store is a mecca for Beat fans to this day. Ferlinghetti stood trial on obscenity charges for publishing and selling Howl, a trial that was of landmark importance for all future literature considered to be controversial but having artistic or social value. The bookstore was the headquarters for the Beats when they were in San Francisco.

Ferlinghetti was a writer himself and his most famous collection of poetry, A Coney Island of the Mind, is one of the most popular poetry collections ever published. While his style is very different from other Beat writers, Ferlinghetti was also very influenced by jazz music and wrote many of the poems in the collection with the purpose of being read to jazz accompaniment.

The Dharma Bums, Jack Kerouac

One of the most important philosophical aspects of the Beat generation was their interest in Eastern philosophies and religions like Taoism and Buddhism. The Dharma Bums is, like On the Road, a semi-fictional account of Kerouac’s life including some key characters involved in the Beat generation, most notably poet and essayist Gary Snyder, who was responsible for introducing Kerouac to Buddhism.

Dharma Bums is about the time after Kerouac published On the Road to great success and was dubbed the voice of his generation. During that period, he took many sojourns into the woods in an attempt to get closer to nature and some sort of spiritual truth guided by Snyder, who had been practicing Zen Buddhism for years. Just as On the Road influenced people to live fast and hard and explore America on road trips, The Dharma Bums introduced a generation to the ideas of Zen Buddhism and inspired many a long, spiritual camping getaway.

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on the wings of forever

citharachiaroscurolux xx
on the wings of forever, You have
slackened all the filch in me;
danced to rogue, believed and
bleeding, festered sores starched
to claim me here

somehow, You know my every need,
toasted raw and beatific in his
thankless lace, his slivered greed

to christen Thee, and stomach all
the foreplay, shattered- condensed
crudely in shadows as this fire
of crisp white belladonna moves
rare and voraciously upon me

in vain, You have speared every
wince, plainly soaked to the bone-
drenched in hallelujah chanting,
as I settle grimly for what lies

worthy, yet forgotten, I sorely
kiss him goodbye- shuddering
gloomily to myself, this bartered
spare of night eternal

save me now from the night, I
plead Thee, in glistens- torn and
scattered, somehow wordless, as
I groan without pure tongue…


O God, I adore You. I give myself to You.
May I be the person You want me to be,
and may Your will be done in my life today.

I thank You for the gifts You gave to Father Solanus.
If it is Your Will, bless us with the beatification of
Venerable Solanus so that others may imitate
and carry on his love for all the poor and suffering of our world.

As he joyfully accepted Your divine plans,
I ask You, according to Your Will,
to hear my prayer for … (your intention)
through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

“Blessed be God in all His designs.”

Imprimatur: Adam Cardinal Maida, Archbishop of Detroit
March 31, 2007 © F.S.G. 3/07

Day 4 - Novena For The 58th Anniversary Of Venerable Fr. Solanus Casey’s Death July 31, 1957

I’m not a Taemin/Kai shipper (I only like them in a brotp sense), but I am horribly amused at how some of the pictures/video cuts appear to be promoting TaeKai. Like the picture of them running and Kai is looking at Taemin with that beatific smile on his face. Or that picture where the boys have their heads resting on Krystal’s leg, but Taemin’s head is angled towards Kai. Or that scene where Taemin and Kai give each other piggybacks. Or that picture that has Krystal looking at Taemin while the boys stare at each other. Hell, who am I kidding, there is so much TaeKai undertones in this shoot! :))

On a side note, can we talk about how good Taemin and Krystal look together? I’d totally ship it. I hear some antis/batshit crazy fans are giving Krystal grief in her IG account. My god, can you not? She’s only doing her job. And the three of them are friends from the same agency.

anonymous asked:

I love your hair 😊

This means so much to me. Like…I worked so hard to learn to love this hair after getting made fun of in elementary school and straightening it and relaxing it and then finally realizing, “wtf, I have beatific hair and I’m ruining it,” and my mom still hoping that I’ll straighten it from time to time and I know I’m rambling but this means so much and I love you for this, okay? Thank you. Keep sending sweet anons because you never know what they might mean to someone

skylinenearthesea asked:

Glad to see you on tumblr, mec! I've been following you Willow and Amanda for at least a year - I'm even thinking of changing my name to Añil (indigo in Spanish) when I serve in Paraguay next year for Peace Corps. I own all the music by you Willow and Jaden and I keep tryna wake up my friends to all the truths! Keep putting out that beautiful music, those wonderful vibes and those beatific faces/auras and you'll always have a sister in me. Wishing you all the love light and happiness. <3

keep discovering your own truths and understand that just because it’s a truth for you doesn’t mean everyone will agree or understand your perspective, let alone your perception of a “truth”. versions of the truth can all be real, but can be very different and hard for people to see because everyone experiences things differently!! that’s the beautiful part about everything that the Universe gives. wishing you satisfaction to appease and feed your own truth.

anonymous asked:

I would "go gay" for Natalie dormer because she is amazing, she pours her soul into her acting and frankly has a beautiful everything. I don't like vagina I get weirded out thinking out sex with women but for Natalie dormer I would put aside my nausea and marry that beatific women. Stop being so sensitive and trying to find problems just to complain. Damn.

First- there many men who have vaginas and intersex people who have genitalia that does not match their assigned gender or is atypical and appearance, and since sexual orientation is about gender and not genitalia, info on whether you’re into a certain type of genitalia is irrelevant. It’s totally possible you’ve been attracted to men or someone you perceive to be a man before who do not have a penis and your attraction is no less valid because of that.

But moving on..

Second- I make a post based on my irritation at a common experience in my own life that apparently a lot of other people also relate to, not saying it’s the worst things that’s ever happened, not throwing myself on the train tracks demanding we put straight people to death over this great tragedy, just saying “hey this is kind of minimizing and insulting (since orientation isn’t just about hooking up and people literally are fired and evicted and raped and killed over it so maybe not treat it like a synonym for wanting to fuck someone) – and could people just stop doing that”

And boy oh boy you would not believe the amount of people who take to the safety of anonymous hate mail to let me know why me talking about my experience and my feelings about it is an inconvenience to them. Stop being so sensitive? You literally felt so annoyed by this great injustice of me having an opinion on something I experience all the time that you had to come into my inbox and bore me with a transphobic explanation about why you should be able to keep being minimizing and insulting because you want to and yet I am the sensitive one. Yall are just unbelievably distant from your own actions sometimes it’s astounding.

{ donottouchmeagain }

The smile that lit Thor’s face with Loki’s words was beatific. “You are uncommonly sweet when you wish to be,” he murmured and reached out to draw the other in for a warm embrace. It made his heart swell with love and adoration when the trickster came to open..and honest. For once..or perhaps twice. “Know that you will always matter to me. I carry you in my heart…always.”

It’s been a very, very long time since the last time Thor hugged him. They’ve been at odds for so long, Loki forgot how it felt to be wrapped in Thor’s strong arms. As initial shock caused by this sudden physical affection washed away, he wanted to hug the Thunderer back, but all of sudden Loki felt exhausted and powerless. He just let Thor hold him, leaning his head on Thunderer’s shoulder.

“I’m so tired, Thor.” Loki whispered, breaking the silence. “So very tired…”