the first snow of winter, vodka, coy smirks acrossthe room at your lover, black silk, the feel of satin against your skin, a wifeand a mistress sharing a knowing smile across the coffin at the funeral, ArcticMonkeyssongs, Lana Del Rey songs, the look of trees in winter,foggy mornings, the flash of gray eyes, whispered threats, film noirs,
black tie events, lacy black lingerie, fur coats, the smell of expensive
perfumes, the scent of old paper, “Take Me to Church” by Hozier, jazz
funerals, New Orleans, making threats against any person who dares cross
you or anyone you care for, mirrors draped in black, silent comforts from a
loved ones, New York high society, burning photographs, spilt wine,
the way your chin trembles while you’re trying not to cry, sucking in deep
breaths of frigid air, being pricked by the thorns of a beautiful flower, crying
alone in your bed late at night, every song that’s ever made you feel like
you could rule the world, Russia, grunge, romantic languages
sometimes i think that’s the worst part of losing someone. like when you see something you know they’d like, or see an event you know they’d want to go to, and think that you should call them, and then you have to realize: oh, they’re dead. or oh, we don’t talk anymore. and that constant remembering is so awful.
Ocean Capewell, from “on freedom” (from High On Burning Photographs #8)
The few days of cold sunshine quickly passed, and the weather reverted to the norm. For a while the landscape was obscured again by dense Scotch mist driving horizontally across at gale force speed, but on Wednesday the skies cleared at times, and between the sudden showers of rain mixed with battering, icy hail, there were some pleasantly bright intervals.
Algy perched on the banks of the Blue Burn, and watched the water swirling quickly past him on its way to the sea. After a winter of almost perpetual rain and other precipitation, he was amazed that it was not more flooded. The land was exceedingly soggy, and pools formed spontaneously every time that it rained again, but the water drained rapidly away through the peat bogs, into the burns and away to the ocean. Algy guessed that this landscape had thoroughly adapted to excessive water over the course of many, many years of constant rainfall!
High On Burning Photographs #9 is really good. Raw, hard-to-read in spots, but really good as all of Ocean’s stuff is. I was particularly struck by this section from the piece “chains.” (CW for emotional abuse, skip to the ** if you can’t deal with reading it right now):
i’ve never noticed being emotionally abused, not until it’s over. not until i’ve had time to think, reflect, process. this gives people plenty of space to disbelieve me, act like what i have been through has no meaning. “why are you getting mad about it now?” “well if it was really that bad, you would have left.” but i don’t notice. it just lets itself in, bit by bit, until it is my whole life.
It has always been the same way for me - with emotional abuse and with other fucked-up things in my life: I either don’t notice right away, or I don’t even want to admit it to myself, and then when I do finally tell people about whatever it is, it leaves room for doubt. Because if you don’t talk about something right when it’s happening or right after, clearly it wasn’t that bad.
**Yeah, the zine is great. Raw and painful and honest, and also hopeful. Email firstname.lastname@example.org to find out how to get yr own copy.