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Dorothy Allison, Two or Three Things I Know for Sure

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Someone said “Nothing gives you a clearer look into someone than how they misinterpret things, every misinterpretation is a confession” and it’s so true because how people misunderstand things can reveal a lot about their perspectives and feelings.

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http://asoftwrongness.bigcartel.com

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Jenny Holzer, “in a forest of words”, 1994

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silly little s1 Mabel zine I made, using some old magazines and the worst set of rubber stamps you've ever seen. technically each page has a theme but mostly it's just quotes I like <33

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Thinking about girls that are not girls but feral vitriolic spiteful things. They are not people. Changeling girls. Girls that gnash and claw and kill to survive. Speaks in spiral poetry that never says what it's supposed to mean, holds too much weight but no weight at all and can never be quiet. Full of mania and screams and fights and pushes and pushes and pushes and pushes. Girls who think they know everything about this world full of dirt and malice but know nothing at all. Girls half dead and half on fire.

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“The bad news is you’re falling through the air, nothing to hang on to, no parachute. The good news is, there’s no ground.”

— Chögyam Trungpa

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HUNGER

If we never have enough love, we have more than most. We have lost dogs in our neighborhood and wild coyotes,  and sometimes we can’t tell them apart. Sometimes we don’t want to. Once I brought home a coyote and told my lover we had a new pet. Until it ate our chickens.  Until it ate our chickens, our ducks, and our cat. Sometimes we make mistakes and call them coincidences. We hold open the door then wonder how the stranger ended up in our home.  There is a woman on our block who thinks she is feeding bunnies, but they are large rats without tails. Remember the farmer’s wife? Remember the carving knife? We are all trying to change what we fear into something beautiful. But even rats need to eat. Even rats and coyotes and the bones on the trail could be the bones  on our plates. I ordered Cornish hen. I ordered duck. Sometimes love hurts. Sometimes the lost dog doesn’t want to be found.

KELLI RUSSELL AGODON

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“Hey Virgil what’s your favorite poem”

I’m so glad you asked.

“Editor’s Page; The Long and Short of It” by Richard Siken.

The line this poem is most well known for is the famous “Sometimes you get so close to someone you end up on the other side of them.” And while this is an absolutely beautiful line, the poem is so much more than that.

It’s not even a poem per se. From what I’ve gathered it’s an editor’s page at the beginning of his poetry book. It’s a page of him. Talking directly to someone. Talking about how he writes, and publishes it, knowing (hoping) that that one specific person is reading it. It’s a full page saying “You. You who I no longer know. I wrote this for you.”

“Of all the people reading this, are you one of them? I have to believe you are. Sure, we invent each other. We agreed to that a long time ago. Train and trainstation, force and field. We do what we do and what I do is put the pies on the windowsill.

        So here you are, reading this, expecting something. A story perhaps, or someone singing themselves to sleep. You’re ready and I’m ready too. Have you been waiting long?”

I love. Love the fact. That it’s these two writers, writing and publishing their work to the world. But they know. They both know each piece is about the other.

“you are my nomad and I love you sideways daily. Sideways because I have to beam my love in all directions, hoping it bounces off something and eventually finds you.”

Something something we no longer talk, so we talk in the only way we can.

And I hate that it calls me out so hard. The idea of it. Of “I put this out here, knowing you will see it. I hope you see it.”

And he says “Here is a place for it to happen. A place where I can love you.”

Here is a space, where I can be true, and open, and honest about how I feel. And the truth is I do not hate you.

And I think that is why I love this piece so much.

I do not love them anymore, I haven’t for many years now. But it would be a lie to say I do not feel some soft way towards them. Not romantic. More like, the edges of my anger and the distance towards you are soft. Maybe it’s the rose tinted glasses of nostalgia, the grass is always greener. Maybe as I grow I forgive more. Maybe my memory fails and I forget the bad more. But whatever it is. I have no place I can say this. No place where I can speak kindly of them. Where I can miss them. Grieve them. They would judge, be angry. (I would be too. Why do you still grieve over 2 years later? I do not know. Why do you miss what burned you? I do not know.) That is why I made this account in the first place. So I would have somewhere where I could openly grieve them. And miss them. And not be judged. That’s why only one person who knows me irl follows me (He knows. I like to think he understands. Please do not see me differently when you read this. Please do not be disappointed.)

So here I stand. Sending my own waves across the ocean. Hoping they will pick them up, and read verse after verse of “I do not hate you. Do you know that? Please do not believe I hate you.”

“I could pretend I’m speaking to everyone—assume a middle distance and transcend myself—but I’m taking to you and you know it.”

Do you hear that? I’m talking to you.

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SAEED JONES

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smoke signals - phoebe bridgers / the lovers - rené magritte / blue lily, lily blue - maggie stiefvater / the lovers II - rené magritte / portrait of fryderyk in shifting light - richard siken

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“He broke my heart. You merely broke my life.” ― Vladimir Nabokov

Photo by Francesca Woodman

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road kill, dexter

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“Why run around offering water? There’s a sea in every house. If anyone is thirsty, by hook or crook, he’ll drink.”

— Kabir

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The Task

by Edward Hirsch

You never expected to spend so many hours staring down an empty sheet of lined paper in the harsh inner light of an all-night diner, ruining your heart over mug after mug of bitter coffee and reading Meister Eckhart or St. John of the Cross or some other mystic of nothingness in a brightly colored booth next to a window looking out at a deserted off-ramp or unfinished bridge or garishly lit parking lot backing up on Detroit or Houston or some other city forsaken at three a.m. with loners and insomniacs facing the darkness of an interminable night that stretched into months and years.

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Life was too short

for your every impatience.

The doors that you closed

that should have stayed open.

The doors that you broke open

that should have stayed close.