The Language of Desire -
The first time someone I loved told me he loved me, I was so elated my very skin could have flown off, and the walls off the dingy little basement bar we were in, and the leaves off the trees, and everything off of everything, because in those words I recognized total mutuality and thus total union and therefore the end of the need for skins or walls or trappings or containments of any kind. Barthes writes about the lover’s capacity for s’abimation, or engulfment, the “outburst of annihilation” that overtakes your spirit when great love or desire is fulfilled. That first I love you was s’abimation.
An abandoned Sinai cinema by Derek Cave
Flowers thrown into a dumpster in Greenwood Cemetery, NY
(Source: malformalady, via paperswallow)
Rita Hayworth in South France, circa late 1940’s.
(Source: forlovelyritahayworth, via dopecinema)
from “Eurydice" by H.D.:
Fringe upon fringe
of blue crocuses,
crocuses, walled against blue of themselves,
blue of that upper earth,
blue of the depth upon depth of flowers,
if I could have taken once my breath of them,
enough of them,
more than earth,
even than of the upper earth,
had passed with me
beneath the earth;
if I could have caught up from the earth,
the whole of the flowers of the earth,
if once I could have breathed into myself
the very golden crocuses
and the red,
and the very golden hearts of the first saffron,
the whole of the golden mass,
the whole of the great fragrance,
I could have dared the loss.
Laura van den Berg, "Where Will All the Buildings Go?" -
On Sunday night, they go to bed together. They read for a little while, they turn off the lights. She waits for him to fall asleep, so she can work on her city. Downstairs, at the dining room table, she goes slowly, paying attention to every detail, testing different colors on the side of the skyscraper until she finds one that looks right. She spreads out all the miniature people. She picks up a woman in a blue dress. Tiny Ellen, she calls her. She looks at her parks and her skyscraper and her maze of streets. She tries to find a place for herself.
magic circle - waterhouse - 1886
Postcards are a nice way to send a message to someone. However, they are a fragile form. Why anyone would ever trust paper is an answer we will never know. But if you must send a postcard send a postcard in a bottle. And really there is only one message you should ever write on a postcard. The card should read I love you but I am stuck in a jungle and it is going to eat me. Never specify who you are, this way anyone who receives the postcard will think they are loved by someone who was eaten by a jungle. This is a good way to be remembered. This is a good way to have candles lit in your honor. — Chad Redden, from his dream guides podcast The Rocket Dream (via kdecember)
(Source: babepotato7, via othernotebooksareavailable)
(Source: trustyourblood, via othernotebooksareavailable)
I’ve always shied away from writing my mother’s name as I speak it. Mama, I say in life; more Momma in the Blue Ridge Virginian way. But writing Mama in nonfiction carries a weight. Written it looks like a rote regionalism, a mistruth established to portray a place in the world. As a teenager I hardly said it at all in front of others, friends who used the suburb-preferred Mom. Now I am glad for it; a different name, a distinction.