morning burn

Earth does such things
to itself: furrowing, cracking apart, bursting
into flame. It rips openings in itself, which it struggles
(or not) to skin over. The moon
doesn’t care about its own
craters and bruises. Only we can regret
the perishing of the burned place.
Only we could call it a wound.
—  Margaret Atwood, Morning in the Burned House: A Fire Place
how to feel like an angel during the holidays ::

• wear vanilla behind your ears and on your wrists

• light candles in the morning and let them burn throughout the day (don’t forget to blow them out if you leave or go to sleep!!)

• let yourself indulge in treats such as candy canes, marshmallows, and gingerbread

• take your time to brush through your hair

• play instrumentals from ballets such as the nutcracker or sleeping beauty

• apply lotion every night before you sleep

• watch the morning sunrise

• wear the softest clothing you have to keep warm

you know how when you go to the doctor complaining that something hurts, they ask you is it a sharp pain? a dull pain? does it come and go or is it always there? the missing you. it hurts. it’s like a dull pain in my heart that never goes away. it never leaves. and if it does it’s for a split second and then it’s a sharp pain. a pain that makes me remember every kiss, every hug, every coffee date, or morning spent burning pancakes. the pain of missing you never leaves. there is no medication. no magic fix. the dull pain in my chest never leaves. it’s like the weight of the world is sitting on my chest. in the same place you used to lay your head ever so lightly. the only cure for this is you. and therefore my pain in incurable.
—  the dull pain in my heart.

I think a sweet Aphrodite altar would be a makeup vanity. You could keep a vase of roses(fake ones are okay!), pink and blue jars filled with your tools and supplies, pearls, shells, and morning chocolates. Burning scented candles and incense, and using rose face scrubs and lotions. Not to mention the glamours you could perform, or how perfect your eyebrows will be when you know She’s with you. Every morning could be an act of devotion by pampering yourself, and every night another by softly removing your makeup. Aphrodite is so lovely, and I think this would be a lovely way to celebrate her. 🌙🕊

1/12/17

Good morning!

“I am very busy.”

Yep. I think this is why I bite my nails at night. It’s an unconscious thing, but usually happens when I’m spinning too many plates in my life. That’s ok! Life is for living and switching nail polish every three days is a great problem to have💗

In other news, it looks like I’m doing Toughest Mudder in March in L.A. That’s a five mile Tough Mudder loop that starts at midnight and ends at 8am. This incidentally qualifies you to run World’s Toughest Mudder… The best part is that I’ll be running on a team for the first time (With Anna and Channing, if you’re up-to-date on my girlfriends who run) and doing a snapchat takeover for Obstacle Racing Media if you want to check out a night race with me💃🏼

Happy Thursday.
Xx

the five senses

james:
sights: blue skies dotted with cartoon-perfect clouds, hands raised in mock defence, someone winking at you, fields of green in the spring, walking backwards, eyes being lit up, flannel shirts, grinning so wide it hurts, cocking your head to one side, a rose in a cola bottle
sound: the wind rustling through the trees, lightning strikes, fingers snapping, rapping knuckles against a desk, unrestrained laughter, easy, simple (like everything else)
smells: freshly mown grass, morning breath, toast burning, rain on concrete
tastes: strawberries, mint, toothpaste, water when you are parched, when you need it more than you need it to breathe, running down your lips
touch: tracing the line of a jaw, knowing what someone else is going to say before they say it, finishing someone else’s sentences for them, your heart skipping a beat, wind running through your hair, flying

sirius:
sights: heaving chests, running both hands through your hair, dark eyelashes, catching someone looking at you, like they can’t help it, like they can’t not look at you, the lights going down in a cinema, the mottled blue and purple of a bruise, a black so dark it is almost bright, dried blood crusted around your lips
sounds: thunder rumbling, cracking knuckles, the growl of an engine, profanity and the way it twists your lips, the way it makes you whole
smells: cigarette smoke, hazelnuts, gasoline, sharp peppermint that sticks in the lungs, gasoline, ink, dark and black and bloody
tastes: roasted hazelnuts, black coffee at 3am, bitterness
touch: sandpaper tongues, fingers on the hot, sharp glint of steel, sweat on skin, blood running through your veins so fast you can barely breathe, throwing a punch, driving with the windows down, hands against a brick wall, like you have hit the wall, like you can’t get past it

remus:
sights: autumn leaves dead on the ground like carrion, circulation being cut off in your fingers, the colour of wine, deep and burgundy and looking a little too much like blood—
sounds: waves crashing, a mixtures of torrential and calm all at once, a guttural growl in the back of the throat, the crunch of gravel, twigs snapping, heavy sighs, the crackle of vinyl, something tearing, something being ripped
smells: woodsmoke, wrapping paper, fresh linen, old parchment
tastes: blood in the mouth, milk chocolate, tea leaves
touch: picking away at a scab, biting your nails, ripping up handfuls of grass, teeth sinking into your lower lip, a barking laugh of surprise escaping your lips, like you didn’t know it was there, like you didn’t know you were capable of it 

peter:
sights: a fairground in full swing, empty chairs at empty tables, a million pairs of shoes piled at the front door, turned backs, palms upturned, to catch, to hold, the one chipped union-jack mug in the cupboard, the empty stretch of tarmac at the airport and the feeling that sticks in your throat like glass, like you don’t know where you’re going, like you don’t know where you’ve been
sounds: walnut shells crushing underfoot, the wind buffeting along the beach, the crackling of foiled candy wrappers, a phone that rings, and rings, and rings (but no-one answers)
smells: wet earth, roasted chestnuts, the smell of baking, musty, like something is dying, like something is already dead
tastes: sorrow, chocolate bars, bubblegum, chewing something that just won’t swallow
touch: feet on carpet, carpet burn, grinding your teeth, laughing so hard it hurts your sides, starting a sentence you forget to finish

lily:
sights: daffodils in the spring, shelves bursting with books, like there is so much life and knowledge there it cannot be contained, mothers holding their children, pastel ice cream flavours, bunches of flowers outside a florist’s, your drink being placed in front of you in a coffee shop
sounds: the roar of a motorcycle in the distance, heavy metal rock, laughter, bells chiming, a page being turned, walking on cobblestones, clinking china
smells: cinnamon, grass, lillies, tea tree, the way perfume lingers on your clothes, fresh night air
tastes: copper, metallic and sharp on the tongue, not quite bloody but just enough, vanilla, a sadness so heavy it is almost sweet
touch: the material of your skirt swirling around you as you spin, like you cannot stop spinning, you won’t stop spinning, breathing unsteadily, porcelain, the roughness and heaviness of denim, someone else’s hand in yours, the way love has a pulse and you can feel it under his skin

The dark soft languages are being silenced:
Mothertongue Mothertongue Mothertongue
falling one by one back into the moon.
Language of marshes,
language of the roots of rushes tangled
together in the ooze,
marrow cells twinning themselves
inside the warm core of the bone:
pathways of hidden light in the body fade and wink out.

The sibilants and gutturals,
the cave language, the half-light
forming at the back of the throat,
the mouths damp velvet moulding
the lost syllable for “I” that did not mean separate,
all are becoming sounds no longer
heard because no longer spoken,
and everything that could once be said in them has
    ceased to exist.

Margaret Atwood, from “Marsh Languages,” Morning in the Burned House (Houghton Mifflin, 1995)