- Ask me anything
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they should invent a sandwich in which all the ingredients stay where you put them and not slide out
(via alex-the-greatest)
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Basic August, Eileen Myles
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BLUE DOOR
Today I passed the house we rented last summer. It was only a glimpse as I drove by blue door, adobe arch painted with flowers. In memory your dusty van is parked on the gravel and you’re standing at the stove while I curl on the couch with a book, pretending to read. but secretly watching you, loving how you look intent on our meal, on getting it right. How clearly I can see everything: cars passing on the road outside, you, shirtless, leaning over a cast-iron pot, me holding a few useless words in my hands. Nothing I’ll say will make you stay with me, nothing erase how you’ll turn toward me, offering the wooden spoon so that I get up, and come to you, and taste that salt on my tongue.
Kim Addonizio, Blue Door
(via firstfullmoon)
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do not, my friends, become addicted to treats. they will take hold of you, and you will meow meow meow mew meow mew mew meow mewo meow
(via i-aint-even-bovvered)
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IF THE ROUTINE NO LONGER SERVES, YOU MUST ALTER THE PATTERN, WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?? YOUR LIFE STARTS WITH YOU
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- “When the piece of a body is left (or a home is left) then the body begins being a constellation: one piece is there! one piece is there! If I leave my hair in the comb in my mother’s house & walk out the door to go to the airport, then all of a sudden the body is everything between me & that lost piece. The body is made up, then, of roads & crickets & azucena & mud. How large we are. How ramshackle, how brilliant, how haphazardly & strangely rendered we are. Gloriously, fantastically mixed & monstered. I have been asking myself to be more attentive & porous—to pay attention to the way every inch of me is animal, every inch of me is earth. I am trying to remember this. Where is my cloud? Where is my sea? What do the lungs hunt? What does the eye have in common with the teeth?”
— Aracelis Girmay (via elucipher)
(via firstfullmoon)
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- I know we don’t get happily ever afters in real life. I’m a hopeless romantic, not a total fucking idiot. As my friend, Russell, said to me once, “Even with the happiest couples, one of you dies first.” But first there is such unalloyed joy.
We went to the supermarket yesterday and we were wandering around and, at one point, he took my hand, because that’s the kind of thing he does. And instantly, I got flustered. Residual anxiety. Remembrance of past battery. Enduring scars. Even though I know I’m hardly likely to get my head kicked in by the salad bar, PDAs can still make me nervous. And then he said, gentle as anything, and I’m not going to do the accent… “If there’s a gay kid in here with his folks, frightened that he’s a freak, don’t you think that it might give him hope, seeing two guys wandering around, being themselves, getting their groceries, like everyone else?” If happiness is a place… it’s the biscuit aisle in Sainsbury’s. And anywhere else I am with him. -
shaking six year old me by the shoulders YOU WERE RIGHT. YOU WERE RIGHT ABOUT LOVE AND ABOUT FAIRNESS AND ABOUT SHARING IS CARING. YOU WERE RIGHT. THE ADULTS DON’T KNOW ANY MORE ABOUT TRUTH THAN YOU DO. KEEP BELIEVING IN THE FAIRIES AT THE BOTTOM OF THE GARDEN. NOTHING IS “JUST THE WAY IT IS”. I AM SORRY THEY EVER CONVINCED YOU TO FEEL SHAME. YOU ARE REAL AND A PART OF THIS WORLD. YOU WERE RIGHT.
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one day you think: I want to die. and then you think, very quietly: actually. actually. I think I want a coffee. a nap. a sandwich. a book. and I want to die turns day by day into want to go home, I want to walk in the woods, I want to see my friend, I want to sit in the sun, I want a cleaner kitchen, I want a better job, I want to live somewhere else. I want to live.
- via duckbunny
