the joy of being known
true blue - boygenius >> milsae >> presumably dead arm - sidney gish >> a bookmark near the end - julia nicole camp >> tumblr user @bananaanna1 >> tumblr user gayassnatural (old url)
we’re in love
boygenius for loud and quiet magazine / three of cups tattoos by brian woo / without you, without them / leonard cohen / we’re in love
“Fucking love a leitmotif!” Baker says.
“Me & My Dog” (2018) / “Letter to an Old Poet” (2023)
this May is about release. this may is about new doors opening. i thought for a long time i had run out of things to be interested in. that the world was a dull socket i kept sticking forks in. but this May is about the tiny things. i am back to wondering how to keep my hands steady. i am back to dancing. i am back to the slow nod of the evening. you know, i haven't tried skydiving. you know, there's a new place down the street i hear sells really good ice cream. you know, the trees outside my window all look different lately, and that's something.
this May is about listening. the soft gentle return of the sun. the crowning heads of flowers. a newborn, tender future - awake at last, and faintly glistening.
peoplehood-deactivated20211003
Anonymous asked:
what are some of your favorite friendship quotes??
Arnold Lobel, Days With Frog and Toad
Hanya Yanagihara, A Little Life
Wendy Cope, The Orange
Frank O’Hara, To John Ashbery
Emily Brontë, Love and Friendship
Salman Toor, Reunion / Green Bar
Mary Oliver, What is the greatest gift?
Danez Smith, acknowledgments
oh pandora. sometimes, i wake up with your name on my lips. when people asked you: what was left, when all the evil came out? i think you lied. i think you folded your own hope and stashed it in there. glistening and wet and mewling. after all, my love. it is still your hope i keep at the end of the dawn.
i mean - what use is the hope of rich young lovers? of smiling people with fancy cars? of hope that is bottled, of hope that is branded, of hope that comes from a poisoned well.
no. give me the hope of 3 AM. give me the hope of someone standing alone in the wind. give me the hope of building edges, of sirens, of a new wound healing. give me the hope of fresh bread, of holding hands, of shaky yes. give me the hope of hurt-before. give me the hope that has seen each dark and evil thing and said - okay, i can go further, even despite this.
pandora, that is your hope. the real hope. angry, bitter, sapphire-hard. the kind of hope that cannot be squashed. the kind of hope that kernels, small and wonderful - the kind of hope that calls home, after all. the kind of hope that clutches the back of my hand and says: it can hurt. it can keep hurting. but it hasn't killed you yet, and it can't if you don't let it. the hope that says - not this. i have more. i am more. i will live and eat the monster that chases me. i will live and i will find a way to cherish memory. i will live, damn it, and i will look into the empty box and when people ask me are you okay , i will lie and i will say i have hope, because of course i do, somewhere, somewhere, somewhere. if i just stop and look.
oh, open the box! the thing about hope is that she cannot die. she has already grown accustomed to the dark. a fable in catalyst, then - when the lid comes off, and all else is gone, hope is exposed to the light. and she stays. and she burns. and she gleams in the night.
oh pandora. sometimes, i wake up with your name on my lips. when people asked you: what was left, when all the evil came out? i think you lied. i think you folded your own hope and stashed it in there. glistening and wet and mewling. after all, my love. it is still your hope i keep at the end of the dawn.
i mean - what use is the hope of rich young lovers? of smiling people with fancy cars? of hope that is bottled, of hope that is branded, of hope that comes from a poisoned well.
no. give me the hope of 3 AM. give me the hope of someone standing alone in the wind. give me the hope of building edges, of sirens, of a new wound healing. give me the hope of fresh bread, of holding hands, of shaky yes. give me the hope of hurt-before. give me the hope that has seen each dark and evil thing and said - okay, i can go further, even despite this.
pandora, that is your hope. the real hope. angry, bitter, sapphire-hard. the kind of hope that cannot be squashed. the kind of hope that kernels, small and wonderful - the kind of hope that calls home, after all. the kind of hope that clutches the back of my hand and says: it can hurt. it can keep hurting. but it hasn't killed you yet, and it can't if you don't let it. the hope that says - not this. i have more. i am more. i will live and eat the monster that chases me. i will live and i will find a way to cherish memory. i will live, damn it, and i will look into the empty box and when people ask me are you okay , i will lie and i will say i have hope, because of course i do, somewhere, somewhere, somewhere. if i just stop and look.
oh, open the box! the thing about hope is that she cannot die. she has already grown accustomed to the dark. a fable in catalyst, then - when the lid comes off, and all else is gone, hope is exposed to the light. and she stays. and she burns. and she gleams in the night.
Just love without pretense. Love without calculation. Love without a winner, love without a martyr, love like - I know you were hungry, I saved you half of my sandwich. Like - I know you hate silence, give me a second to get the music on. Like - move over, let's be alone together. Love like taking off your makeup. Like fresh cleaned sheets. Like: I see you and you see me.
“This isn’t what family is supposed to be.” (r.i.d)
hi, my love. it’s 2021. we’re looking through our old work to include in our new book - this one is about being-good-enough.
these are pictures of our old back yard. it doesn’t look like that anymore; we cleaned up the broken bird bath and laid down loam. last i saw, there were big pink roses. we live in a different old-house-in-the-woods, but our kitchen is still yellow.
i think you knew, even then - there is something beautiful about springing up from shattered glass. that’s why you took those pictures, right? you felt unbelievably sad and lonely; fascinated with the measure of ivy to survive shade and rot.
you are doing better, by a lot. we adopted a dog. we have tattoos over our scars. at the time we took this picture, we thought we would never recover; that this was all we were ever going to be. it’s been five years clean. you did it, in part, for your family.
you were looking for home. i don’t think you recognized that. you were full of detritus. you were trapped in your fear of perfection. an unshot arrow could never miss. you thought if you were very still, the future could rush around you and slip by your ears and somehow not drown you.
you were not wilting. you were just sprouting. what unsure walls taught, current hands can climb.
keep growing, little love. it is worth it on the other side.
“healing is a sloppy and reckless affair. you will fall back into several habits unintentionally, break things that you believed you were in the process of fixing, play games of hide and seek with self love and your ego, but darling, it is so necessary.”
— iambrillyant
““Too much imagination. Too much creativity. That’s why dreamers don’t succeed in the real world.” they told me. “I know,” I replied. “But in all the worlds I’ve created I was free—and I was alive—and I was loved. And I still am.””
— juansen dizon, Confessions of a Wallflower page 260
Occasionally it is necessary to do something stupid, otherwise life would be boring.
I sense your kisses in your lips full with passion and fire… and “ reckless ” cliffs where only the haws can reach !
And you are… “ a feeling ” in continuous ebullition, and a remote, beautiful firmament of the creation.
I want to be… part of your enigma and the deepest, “of your never felt before emotions”… At the core of my heart..
I sense copper stars… In your wide constellation, where I long, to record my name with ink, - with mad passion !
I will travel in a comet… To the center of your room, to get in your veins until I´m fulfilled, - with love !
- Ousía-Poética | tumblr (cc)
Intuyo besos en tus labios repletos de fuego y pasión… y acantilados, “temerarios” donde solo, - llega el halcón !!
Y es que eres… “sentimiento” en continua ebullición, y un remoto, firmamento hermoso de la creación.
Quiero ser… parte de tu enigma y la más profunda emoción, “nunca jamás sentida”… En el núcleo de mi corazón.
Intuyo astros de cobre… en tu amplia constelación, donde ansío, grabar mi nombre con tinta, - de loca pasión !!.
Voy a viajar en cometa… al centro de tu habitación, para meterme, en tus venas hasta saciarme, - de amor !!.
Edición: Ana Yanci Morales
On your lips, I lived stadiums that not even in dreams, “imagined”, a succession of warm kisses and sensations, - caramelized !!
In your mouth, I found poetry that I did not conceive in my mind, and a metric, so measured… That was a joy, - read you !!
There are sonnets spilled in the steppes of your forehead, and cellos, unleashed… in the orchestra that surrounds you.
There is a light on your eyelids that makes your eyelashes shine; and a garden of white tuberose that give fragrance to your look.
I never found a melody to be embedded in my soul, how beautiful and profound utopia… filling my entrails with peace.
- Ousía Poética ©
En tus labios, viví estadios que ni en sueños, “ imaginaba ”, una sucesión de besos cálidos y sensaciones, - acarameladas !!
En tu boca, encontré poesía que no concebía en mi mente, y una métrica, tan medida… que era una gozada, - leerte !!
Hay sonetos derramados en las estepas de tu frente, y violonchelos, desatados… en la orquesta que te envuelve.
Hay una luz en tus párpados que hace brillar tus pestañas; y un jardín, de blancos nardos que dan fragancia a tu mirada.
Nunca encontré una melodía que se incrustara en mi alma, cuan bella y profunda utopía… llenando de paz mis entrañas.
“She transforms her own dark into her own light. She sees her private shadows - and loves them. She meets her emotional depths - and owns it. She faces private fears of separation - and rises above the illusion. She is the source of her Self and she is always in a state of greater becoming.”
— Molly McCord, The Modern Heroine’s Journey of Consciousness