new-thought

2

浴衣編 Mari Ohara 。.:☆

{ phone backgrounds }

Poetry is
Not having any words
Yet having too many
& By the time I find
My words again
Where will you be
Lost darling
Lost in my poetry
Another sad poem
Is what you are
& I can’t say that you’ve broke me
But you’ve left quite a scar
But I can’t really say scar
Because I’m still spilling blood
& There will never be
Enough words to cover it up
Poetry is
The digging of feelings
Yet covering them up
Digging at wounds
& Then healing them shut
—  Andy is Poetry
Moonlight and Time

I almost know that every line is made of infinite points
but they’re not going anywhere. they’re 
not going anywhere. they’re–

–––

Divorce is such a clever weapon
that you can’t use. 
It staunches screaming fits
in a split second because 
it’s as unbelievable as a 
blood moon, and it’s 
not real. It keeps getting
fat on the meat of 
chaste prayers, 
and hibernating again.
and hibernating again. 
it’s as blunt as a rosary,
arthritic as a priest, 
drowsier than the moon. 

October is my favorite 
because the moon keeps 
getting fat on the idea of pumpkin
spice and hard cider, and just as 
orange.  It murmurs of night shifts 
and movie nights and night classes
and dropping me off at school. 
And talking, and talking 
and happy. October is 
fat and happy, and it
takes its sweet time coming
and then just leaves. 

August is mum as a thirsty sun.
It is too much time and together,
gaunt fingers saying smile. 
Saying attitude creature 
with two white stripes. 
They framed me. 
They blamed me and not 
molasses wall clocks.
They hated me and not 
inclemency or time off. 
August won’t stop 
touching me and I hate it. 
Even if I understand.

I understand that every
relationship is made of
infinite points but my opinion
is a pistol clogged with 
them. I cannot end wars
if every scar is an armistice
contract. I cannot pray in 
this brute obtuseness for 
peace that does not 
swelter. peace that melts into night.
I almost realize 
that every person is 
made of endless points but

they’re not going anywhere. 

3

Some sketchbook doodles in the other style because I need to practice with it more. (And because it’s been too long since I’ve posted anything. ;.; )

Love letter 11

It’s half-cloudy up here,

I know you’re lying awake.

Don’t sugarcoat your angst,

tell me you’re still haunted

by the prospect of me not

finding you enough, finding

you only fill my glass to a

sorry half dash, half the

ultimate satiation. Er, listen,

honey, you’re my optimum

and my maximum, the limit

to which my brain stretches

on most days, the daily last

mile before the breathtaking

sun lights bird backs and rock

tracks, you are the absolute

absolute, and it’s not surprising

that you look at yourself and

shrug that noncommittal shrug.

Only infinity has that kind of

nonchalance, that lazy dismissal. 


I am so smitten by you

(my black hole, my vacuum).

youtube

I just recognized I reached Jared obsessiveness with my i-phone…

(If you want to know more about it, look here)

All the most

It’s so hard to rope in

my winder wonder

wandering brain enough

to string two feel..ings

together. I might sip on

tea casually, but I have

seen the madness in

my own eyes, seen the

howls of unexplained

years, writhing browns,

burning in their carefully

tended furnaces. Save

a bit of me to say I was

real, that I walked among

humans, almost fit in,

almost did well, almost

learned how to control

this trip.

  • Heather:[Trying to get a leptop to work] Blasted thing won’t even switch on.
  • Noah:Yes. It’s hard to believe pressing the same button over and over isn’t yielding any results.
  • Heather:It’s not my job to know how to operate a computer. That’s what the help is for. Cody, come over here and operate this computer.
  • Cody:I’m not your slave, Heather.
  • Heather:Oh we’ll see about that…

Charles Fillmore -  The Twelve Powers of Man, 1930.

1. Faith - Center of Brain
2. Strength - Loins
3. Judgment - Pit of Stomach
4. Love - Back of Heart
5. Power - Root of Tongue
6. Imagination - Between the Eyes
7. Understanding - Front Brain
8. Will - Center Brain
9. Order -Navel
10. Zeal - Back Head, Medulla
11. Elimination - Abdominal Region
12. Life Conserver - Generative Functions

In this model, Fillmore follows a universal, cosmic principle: As within, so without; as above, so below. He postulates that as a child of universe, we have 12 spiritual powers, each of which manifests and functions in and through a particular part of the body. However, he does not include all body organs and systems in this initial model.

We can see that his model is a beginning exposition of the correlation of the powers throughout the whole body temple, and not a complete explanation. Apparently, he understood this, since he wrote: “The physiological designations of these faculties are not arbitrary - the names can be expanded or changed to suit a broader understanding of their full nature.”

Fillmore gives no explanation of how he developed his model. Furthermore, he was not a scientist or a physician. Even if he had been, when he developed this treatise, many parts of the body, especially the brain, were understood only marginally. For example, no one knew the function of the pineal gland, thalamus or hypothalamus. Therefore, it would have been impossible for him to arrive at a full explanation of how the powers correlate with various organs and systems. In retrospect, it is amazing that he did locate most of the powers in the right general area, even though his explanations were incomplete or partly inaccurate.

(love)
  
i let him inside last night, it was cold,
the blood on the living room carpet is mine
not his, his chipped china face
shouldn’t be there, his sing-song voice
shouldn’t echo where it doesn’t belong.
he shouldn’t belong here.
   
(lover)
  
i let him closer to my heart than any other
childhood memory martyr,
any other missing fragment, fractured
glass shard fingernails digging into flesh,
this mighty muscle has become so raw
i doubt healing will be an option.
  
(loved)
  
i miss him.  i miss feeling fields of strawberry lips
swaying, lulling me to sleep in his arms,
strong trees that planted roots among my own.
“its only dirt” he’d said,
but this dirt was my only home.
  
(lost.)
   
i can’t plant flowers here anymore.
his roots sucked the soil dry, void of happiness,
i can’t grow gardens anymore. spots of orange light
still shine through drawn curtains,
but the setting sun is not enough. this isn’t enough.
it was never enough.
i was never enough.
—  poeticallyordinary; Love, Lover, Loved, Lost.