#but it reminds me of the 'enter this deserted house' poem

[zannolin]

RE: all things brought and beautiful, how does it feel having immaculate taste. I saw him in concert during that era and it ruled.

it's THEEEEE owl city album to me like don't get me wrong i love ocean eyes and maybe i'm dreaming quite a lot. i was even a midsummer station girlie for a while; i think we all were. but atbab was the first owl city album that felt like mine. i was so ridiculously obsessed with so many songs on it for SO many years and i still have not stopped thinking about "plant life" ever.

[revmeg]

I couldn't wear that pink dress, the velvet one you had made for me, all year, you know. I thought I would tonight because once again you have let me enter your house and look at myself some mornings in your mirrors.... ...It reminded me of the picture of a blond girl you took with you to Vermont and shared your woods with.... and which you left there to stare at me even when you saw how it broke me, my calm, like a stick smashing across my own plain, lonesome face... I could not wear that pink dress because it reminded me of how I camp on your doorstep now... still a colorful imaginative beggar in my pink dress, building a fire in the landowner's woods, and my own fierceness that deserts me when a man no, when you show a little care and concern for my presence. I could not wear that pink dress tonight. It betrayed all that was strong in me... I went off thinking about all the girls you preferred to me... Remembering that my needs affront you, my face is not beautiful to you; you should not share your woods with me....

from "The Pink Dress” in Emerald Ice: Selected Poems 1962-1987 by Diane Wakoski, p. 126-129

[haunthouse]

hello! do you have any favorite poems about haunted houses?

i do!! here are a few i'm fond of:

how to draw a circle by joan tierney

[...] You've been building this house since you were born, just like your father. Just like your father, you will not live to see it finished. The house has been a nursery. The house has been a burial site. The house is swallowing bodies before the blood has dried. [...]

why are you haunted? a survey also by joan tierney

[ ...] This haunting is architectural. It is not about you. It is about where you are. There are bones in the foundation. This house is a graveyard. This house is a corpse. You are inside the corpse. That makes you the maggot. [...]

ash by tracy k smith

Strange house we must keep and fill. House that eats and pleads and kills. House on legs. House on fire. House infested With desire. Haunted house. Lonely house. House of trick and suck and shrug. Give-it-to-me house. I-need-you-baby house. House whose rooms are pooled with blood. [...]

the house by the railroad by emily berry (copying the whole poem here because i can't find it online anywhere & it's one of my favorites!)

This place? This place happens to be my only world. — Norman Bates, Psycho The house was an old ship moving under me. It sighed and sighed. Dear House, I aid, whoever lives here has neglected your hopes. The house looked down with its big round eye and I stared back, my face was pale as fire. I was a lantern, rising. I was the one right thing. This is her room, the house sighed. It was lonely. In a museum of mirrors and pedestals I walked and felt the decadent shape of an absent woman. She was so accounted for, and perfumed. Her Heavy womanliness was like a thump on the back of the neck. The house was full of wants and no one had come. I'd opened my arms and it leaned to me like a ghost that was tired of haunting. The house rocked itself and mourned. I laid my hand on the door. But it was too wicked. It hung my reflection on the wall. The house wanted me stripped, painted gold and put on a pedestal. It wanted my delicate hands. I climbed the stairs with my light. I rose the way a wave does, all gathered and graceful. A dirty symphony played in the attic. The house was full of tricks. House, where is she? I demanded, but the house had gone quiet. I ran downstairs. I began to know how it feels when something terrible happens. My kindness had made the house shiver. I began to fall. The only world was wrong. I was the highest wave now, I had taken everything into me and risen up and up. I went through the rooms in the dark. I thought I had found er. The moon lit her neat grey hair and I broke. Mother?

if i should come upon your house lonely in the west texas desert by natalie diaz

[...]

If you say to me, This is not your new house but I am your new home, 

I will enter the door of your throat, hang my last lariat in the hallway, 

build my altar of best books on your bedside table, turn the lamp on and off, on and off, on and off. 

I will lie down in you. Eat my meals at the red table of your heart. 

Each steaming bowl will be, Just right. I will eat it all up,

break all your chairs to pieces. If I try running off into the deep-purpling scrub brush, 

you will remind me, There is nowhere to go if you are already here [...]

healers by sophie collins (not a house, technically, but similar vibes. this poem kills me)

I encountered a scaffold outside the Holy Trinity Church in Vladimir, Russia. At first I didn’t notice her slumped against the side of the church —  she was pretty small for a scaffold, pretty un- assuming. Her safety mesh was torn in places and sun-bleached all over and threatened to dislodge due to a forceful wind that was typical of the season. She was shaking. She was fundamentally insecure. She told me that good foundations are essential and that the men who had put her together hadn’t taken advantage of the right opportunities. Now, each day, someone came by called her “unsafe” and also “a liability” then left, failing to initiate the dismantling process that yes would have been painful and slow, but kinder. [...]

[just-wublrful]

and they were roommates

Bluets, Maggie Nelson | Baked Goods, Aimee Nezhukumatathil | Dear Eros, Traci Brimhall | nights like these, pigeon pit | Game Shows Touch Our Lives, The Mountain Goats | Its Not Like Nikola Tesla Knew All of Those People Were Going to Die, Hanif Abdurraqib | If I Should Come Upon Your House Lonely in the West Texas Desert, Natalie Diaz | I Will, Mitski | Object Permanence, Nicole Sealy | Sharon Olds | Six Poems for Tamar, Yehuda Amichai | Seventh Circle of Earth, Ocean Vuong | The Dream of Death, or the Site of the Poetical Bodies, trans. Yvette Siegert, Alejandra Pizarnik

( @lasilhouetteinbianco grimacing emoji)

[Image Description: an assortment of lyrics and quotes from various sources.

1. Eventually you will have to give up this love, she told me one night while I made us dinner. It has a morbid heart.

2. I want our summers/ to always be like this - a kitchen wrecked/ with love, a table overflowing with baked goods/ warming the already warm air. After all the/ pots are stacked, the goodies cooled, and all the counters/ wiped clean - never let us be rescued from this/ mess.

3. with laughs as dark as our halos. I wished Always/ but the dandelion seeds were stubborn, everything ripe/ refused my mouth. When I said Come home, it was a lie, /but I believed it. For a year I was light shaking on/ the surface of the/ water, a fire softening into a flood,/ and once his hand around my arm like a snake circling/ a branch in Eden. Not all secrets are shames, and this one/ isn’t either. It’s the pale green of healing. It’s my lips/ opening like parentheses and his name inside, it’s turning/ back from the wrong north, the moon like a slice of raw/ onion, my skin weeping like a fever, closing the question/ with my hand around my other arm so I’ll match, so I’ll burn.

4. And I stayed up, chain smoking in the kitchen/ Until you got home and the curtains were on fire/ Fuck, I’m sorry you feel all alone

5. Maybe everything that falls down eventually rises/ our house sinking into disrepair

6. Enough with the foolishness of hope and how it bruises/ the walls of a home where two people sit, stubbornly in love/ with the idea of staying. If one must pray, I imagine/ it is most worthwhile to pray towards endings.

7. If you say to me, This is not your new house/ but I am your new home,/ I will enter the door of your throat,/ hang my last lariat in the hallway,

8. And all the quiet nights you bear/ Seal them up with care/ No one needs to know they're there/ For I will hold them for you/ 'Cause all I ever wanted is here/ All I ever wanted/ All I want is/ Always you

9. We wake as if surprised the other is still there,/ each petting the sheet to be sure

10. The house seems/ to circle around you/ slowly. I circle around you, a wild/ animal near a fire. I remember/ I would kill for you. I remind myself/ it won’t be necessary.

11. The rain is speaking quietly,/ you can sleep now./ Near my bed, the rustle of newspaper wings./ There are no other angels./ I’ll wake up early and bribe the coming day/ to be kind to us.

12. As if my finger, / tracing your collarbone / behind closed doors, / was enough / to erase myself. To forget / we built this house without knowing / it won’t last. How/ does anyone stop / regret / without cutting / off his hands?

13. And I would wander across all/ the deserts of this world, even after death, to/ search for you - you who were the place/ of love. End ID.]

[slaygentford]

have you read natalie diaz' “If I Should Come Upon Your House Lonely in the West Texas Desert” it's also very dean cas to me...

oh m GOD I literally almost bought postcolonial love poem today but it was on too high a shelf so I didn’t anyway here it is copied in its entirety because it just tore out my guts 

I will swing my lasso of headlights across your front porch,

let it drop like a rope of knotted light at your feet.

While I put the car in park, you will tie and tighten the loop

of light around your waist— and I will be there with the other end

wrapped three times around my hips horned with loneliness.

Reel me in across the glow- throbbing sea of greenthread, bluestem prickly poppy,

the white inflorescence of yucca bells, up the dust-lit stairs into your arms.

If you say to me, This is not your new house but I am your new home,

I will enter the door of your throat, hang my last lariat in the hallway,

build my altar of best books on your bedside table, turn the lamp on and off, on and off, on and off.

I will lie down in you. Eat my meals at the red table of your heart.

Each steaming bowl will be, Just right. I will eat it all up,

break all your chairs to pieces. If I try running off into the deep-purpling scrub brush,

you will remind me, There is nowhere to go if you are already here,

and pat your hand on your lap lighted by the topazion lux of the moon through the window,

say, Here, Love, sit here—when I do, I will say, And here I still am.

Until then, Where are you? What is your address? I am hurting. I am riding the night

on a full tank of gas and my headlights are reaching out for something.

[blinder-baker]

Be My Salvation II

Alfie Solomons x reader

Warnings: Hardly any plot and like one swear word

@imgrullas​

~READ PART ONE HERE~

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You smiled politely at the workers as you headed straight towards Alfie’s office. In the dark bakery, the majority of men tipped their hats to you in greeting, only a few seem to ignore you in fear. For once, Alfie’s door was wide open, allowing you to enter straight away. Your husband was bent over his desk, clutching a pen in one hand and holding his spectacles up to his eyes in the other. 

“Perhaps, you are too busy for me…” You joked

He looked up, allowing his glasses to fall, relying on the golden chain around his neck to save them. 

“For you? My little lamb, you know better” He raised his hands in defence. 

You closed the door behind you and placed your basket on his desk, directly on top of the papers that he was scrutinizing not a moment before. You pull out the food, offering him his share. As you set it on the table, he oohs and ahhs as if he had never seen such delicacies before. Whilst his feigned surprise has never gone over your head, you appreciate the gratitude all the same; which is why he makes such a scene every time. 

He tore apart one of the pastries with his hands, eating small pieces at a time, “Now, let me guess, ‘ave you been to the market today?”  He questioned knowingly. Alfie knew your routine like the back of his hand. He knew it like a bird knows the sky, or a baker knew his bread. 

You nodded eagerly, and began rummaging through your basket looking for the prized possession. With a proud grin, you held it up in the air with pride, “It’s a book of poems!” You held the book out for him to inspect, “It’s just full of all these little annotations” You explained as he took the book from you.

Alfie’s fingers subtly graced the spine. A feeling you knew all too well, just the thought gave you shivers. He slowly thumbed through the wispy pages, squinting without his golden spectacles. He handed the book back to you, “Very interesting, my little lamb,” 

You replaced the book back into the basket, as Alfie rambled about his day and the business until it was time for you to leave. Alfie grabbed your hands as you kissed him goodbye, clutching them close to his heart.  

“I’ll be home in time for dinner, my love,” He promised, bringing your knuckles to his lips. 

////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

The house always seemed so quiet, no matter who filled it. It was as if the walls absorbed all disturbances, or the wooden floors raised the house to the heavens; high above the humdrum of everyone bar you and Alfie. 

Jars of herbs and spices lined the shelves along the shelves in the kitchen, each one neatly labelled by hand. The aga kept the room warm, where the hearth in the living room failed to extend its heat. As you left the food stewing, you perched at the dining table. The table was small, with only four seats available, the sturdy dark oak taking up a marginal space in the kitchen. Of course, you had a proper dining room, with a table big enough to seat a whole family, with expensive silverware and delicate china plates. But it was hardly used. It wasn’t often that you had company, and you and Alfie preferred to sit close by, so you usually sat in the kitchen. 

At this particular moment in time, you had begun to read the notebook, a small description on the first page told you that it was a collection of poems mainly from the romantic era. The first poem was called “Ozymandias” but by the time you had read it, the tell-tale sound of the door disturbed you from your concentration. You abandoned the book on the table. 

You caught Alfie pulling off his worn through shoes in the hallway, kicking them to the side as he shrugged off his large coat. Once he hung it on the appointed hook, he offered you a wide smile. Alfie opened his arms and ushered you into his embrace, his arms encompassing you in warmth and love. 

“You been cooking, love? Smells delightful” He enunciated, dramatically sniffing the air. 

“It’s not ready yet Alf” You warned, as he marched through to the kitchen. 

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After supper, the two of you settled into the living room. The fire raged in its pit, crackling and spitting embers into the metal fire guard. Alfie reclined onto the large sofa, with you resting your head on his lap. You held the book above your face, 

“Alf, listen to this,” You ordered, with a certain devoted fascination.

“Alright, love, I’m listening” 

“I met a traveller from an antique land,

 Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,

Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;

 And on the pedestal, these words appear:

“My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;

Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!”

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away.” 

 You recited the poem carefully, pondering upon every line. You shook your head with delight at finding such an interesting treasure. 

Alfie remained silent for a moment too long. You closed the book and placed it gently onto the floor beside you, so that you could see his face. He slipped his hand underneath the nape of your neck, and lifted you up slightly, all the while he leaned down, so that his lips could meet yours.

A kiss of passion. Sometimes his words failed him, and there was no other way for him to tell you just how much he loved you. His love stretched across the entirety of his body, it filled him from toe tip to crown with a feeling more powerful than the fire raging in the very same room. 

As he pulled away, he leaned his head back and let out a sigh, his hand coming up to run through his beard. “D’you know, that I fucking love you?” He inquired. 

You laughed softly, “Why don’t you remind me?” You sat up and shuffled around so that you were cuddled up next to him. With your forehead resting on his shoulder, he wrapped one arm around your waist so that you were pinned to him. The other tattooed hand rested on your thigh. He gently kissed the top of your head.  

////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

[the-woman-in-the-writing]

“Breakdown No. 42″ a short story

Rating: PG TRIGGER WARNING  Word Count: 1,325

Author’s note:

This is my most honest work (yet). I wrote this for a book compilation that revolves around emotions and experiences. The truth is, I didn’t know what to write because the compilation required us to be honest about ourselves, and in my years as a writer I always do my best to refrain from reflecting myself in my work, specifically prose (I’m quite honest with my poetry). I wanted to write about someone or something that isn’t me. There may be pieces of myself scattered in my literature but it’s not fully about or inspired by me. So, writing this gave me a whole new direction in writing; every minute was torture, I have to admit. But after I’ve finished it and had a few of my close friends and relatives read it, they cried and told me, ‘this is your best work so far’. I hope you, reader, see it as that way too and if not, I hope you feel you’re not alone in whatever you’re going through.

“I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am.” ― Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

 My yellow walls swelled. Those ugly, piss-yellow walls that were supposed to remind me of happiness. I hated them. Sometimes, they would speak to me. In whispers. In mumbling. In chants. The message was all the same: you don’t belong here. But tonight, they were quiet and maybe it was because my thoughts are too loud to interpret something from their silence. I could hear the air-condition hum a lullaby for the sleepless – a nursery rhyme for the lost.

My hands feel warm on my ears as I feel it tremble. Blood rushing – I could hear it rumble, rumble, rumble. My fingers intertwine itself with my hair and my nails dig into my skull, trying to grab the person inside me. The voice that tells me what to do and what I think. The soul that sympathizes and loathes other people. I want her out – you don’t belong here. Out.

My walls just keep on swelling and swelling and swelling, suffocating me. I have never been claustrophobic, but my room is terrifyingly small right now, like those trap rooms where the walls are closing in on you. I know it’s all in my head. When I stand up, my head won’t hit the ceiling and I can still stretch my arms to show how much I want to leave. It’s all in my head.

It’s all in my head.

It’s all in my head.

I sat up, facing the window. It was night and who knows what time it is, but the outside world seems so peaceful and still, like a painting. My breath fogs up the glass and moistens my nose. I don’t know what to do. It’s a bad day today. I feel so trapped. I am a butterfly trapped in a bell jar and I want out. Nothing bad happened, to be honest. Today went by perfectly normal. It’s just… It’s a bad day. There’s a looming sadness inside of myself and I can feel it spilling out of me, dripping through my nose and the corners of my lips, mixing with my tears, and coming out of my ears and my pores. It’s spilling and spilling – it’s all in my head – and I’m trying to keep it inside of me.

I feel so lost, like I’m floating in oblivion, never anchored down to anything. There’s no sense of belongingness in reality and imagination. I’m stuck in the middle. I am a tourist taking a walk in the Museum of Everyone. The place is silent and deserted, boxed with mahogany walls and films of dusts. There’re different rooms to see: The Hall of Deaths, the Human Mind Planetarium, the Lives Gallery. Wax figures and metal description plates. Mother and Father having breakfast with kids. Teacher lectures about parts of the cell. Friends laughing around. Girl kisses Boy for the first time.

I don’t feel like I belong here, or even anywhere.

A shadow of myself steps out of me. She still has that hope in her eyes, but I could see she’s tired. She looks at me with a blank face and says, “You need to leave.” And she walks out of the door and when I look back to the window, she’s outside, looking at me and shaking her head. It felt strange to watch myself. It was like watching a movie or dreaming; I am in a doppelganger film and I’m the double trying to take over the original’s life.

The walls started swelling again. I try to push them back but it’s no use. You don’t belong here.

Leaving was easier than I expected; I just had to stand up and open the door. In the corner of my eye, I see my dad’s journal look at me earnestly, so I pick it up before the walls could crush me. The outside looks so still from inside, but it’s just like my room. Swelling and crushing me. But outside, my room looks normal. It was all in my head. It’s just a bad day. I imagine it being sucked by a small blackhole, leaving an empty space in our house.

Then I started walking. And walking. And walking. There’s no destination in mind, but I want to be as far away as possible from my life and I want to find myself. I am an observer in the Hall of Changes. I looked at the houses and I remember what color they had before they chipped away. Those bubbles of paint that were so entertaining to squish. I looked at the streets and I remember how it wasn’t paved that way back then. The way it was so muddy whenever it rained. I looked at the walls and I remember the vandals that have come and gone through the years. The “I love you’s” and “was here’s”.  I looked at my life and I remember how simple it was before. The colors, the design, and the words. Now, everything inside of me is twisted and tangled, so complex and so hard to fix and understand.

I could feel the breath of the surroundings, caressing my arms like someone is pulling me slowly into an embrace. I close my eyes and breathe along. Life is entering and leaving my body. I’ve always been alive, one way or another, but so are the sick, so are the sleeping.

My existence feels so linear. Predictable. Dull. An endless string of ‘and then, and then, and then…’. Is there nothing left for me? Do I just go to college, get a degree that I’m never going to use, get my first job that I’m going to hate eventually, pay my taxes, buy a place, quit my first job, get a second job, get married, have kids, buy a house, have a midlife crisis, deal with my children’s teen angst, send them to college so they’ll get a degree they’ll never use so they could get their first job – Is there nothing left? Is this… everything that’s left for me?

How could anyone call this a life?

I had stopped walking. I’m already someplace else with a stranger’s house in front of me. In there, a family or someone who is alone is sleeping, dreaming away their life as they wait for another tomorrow to waste. What would’ve been my life if I had grown up inside that house? Would I have been sad? Would today have been a bad day?

I sat on the pavement and looked at the starless sky, imagining the world revolving and rotating around the sun as I moved on with life. Heliocentric. Then I imagined it revolving and rotating as I sat there at that pavement, motionless. Anthropocentric.

My dad’s journal beat inside my hand. It was old. The edges were soft. Some pages fell out. My dad had wrapped the cover with masking tape and was now brownish. A quote was written on it. Inside, I found poems, entries, quotes, lyrics, unfinished sketches, and pictures. There were some written for my mom. There were some written for himself. And there were some written for me. Opening and skimming the journal felt like I was the exhibit being observed, rather than being the observer. The Lives Gallery. Girl finds herself. I read everything twice and I cried.

She is our sunshine, and I love her.

I imagined myself as a toddler, big eyes with a stupid smile, carried in my parents’ arms. Everything felt in place and was the size of a snow globe. I am inside. You belong here. Girl grows up. I had the world ahead of me. I just didn’t know it yet.

I looked up once more and the world and the sun revolved and rotated around me again before I closed the journal and started walking home.

[detectiveguapo]

Crushed by their own mundanity

I have no doubt that what happened with you and Ezekiel Reyes was devastating. But you were young, resilient, so smart. Was it just a cosmic "fuck you" to the silly pale people being crushed by their own mundanity? I understand that. I really do. Needing something bigger, bolder, more dangerous.

Or I fell in love.

The house is so still when you enter; it’s as if no one’s lived here for years. But everything is immaculate — not a speck of dust on any surface, not a throw pillow out of place, not a pair of red Vans left haphazardly by the entrance. Someone lives here. She’s baking shortbread late in the afternoon, the scent of butter and sugar enticing you to the kitchen.

Everything looks the same but more sterile. Devoid of personality. Devoid of any memories that make it feel like home. The fridge isn’t covered with your macaroni art from first grade, your poems from fourth, your A+ essays from ninth, your picture from senior prom when you were just a junior. You hated your dress and you hated the formalities of the dance, but you loved everything else about that night. Then it all came crashing down when you slipped in the morning after — your father’s car missing from the driveway and his work boots unaccounted for on a Saturday.

“Emily, I didn’t hear you come in.” It’s almost like staring into a mirror from ten years ago. Bright blue eyes and brown, almost-auburn hair, set against the palest skin in all of Santo Padre. “You’re just in time, the shortbread is just coming out of the oven. And it should be soft enough for the baby.”

“How are you doing, mom?” You take a seat on the stool on the opposite side of the kitchen island and watch as she takes the baking sheet and sets it down on the cooling rack. She smiles wide, proud of the golden yellow colour of her cookies. “I haven’t heard from you in weeks.”

“You never called.”

Fair point.

“I’m doing fine, honey,” she says as she continues to flit around the kitchen like a 1950s housewife. “I bought this new cookbook online and I’ve been testing out all these recipes. It’s a lot of baked goods for one lady, so I’ve been bringing most of them over to the parishioners at Sacred Heart. They’ve been a hit!”

“That’s great, mom. But, really, how are you doing?”

“I don’t understand,” she says with a dismissive shake of her head. “I’m telling you I’m fine.”

You know better than to pick at old wounds, but you can’t help but be reminded of your mother’s proclivity for baking when she’s in one of her moods. Most husbands would love to come home to a house smelling of Irish apple tart, but your father despised it. It was like a smoke signal to turn around, back to the office and back to the secretary, who looked at him with sultry eyes and made him feel like he was young again.

“I’d be better if my grandson came to visit me more often,” she says in a cloyingly passive-aggressive tone. Removing her oven mitts, she sets her hands on the counter and finally makes eye contact with you. “Where is he? Is he with the nanny?” She glances over to the kitchen window above the sink, where she hopes to see Maria wheeling the stroller.

“What?” You’re caught off-guard. Does she know about the kidnapping? No one outside the cartel and their associates should know about any of it, but has word spread? You clear your throat and try to swallow down the rising panic in your chest. “He’s with Miguel.” It’s not a lie. He really is with Miguel detained at the border for god-knows-what reason — another giant, unexplainable ‘fuck you’ before you can finally be reunited with your son.

She stares you down with suspicion. “You only ever come to visit me with Cristobal. It’s so you don’t feel guilty about him not having a relationship with his maternal grandmother.”

“That’s not true.”

“And when you do visit, it’s what?” She glances at the old clock on the wall. “Half an hour before you have to go back to your mansion on the hill. Wipe your hands clean of the notion that you’re keeping your grandson from me.”

“I’m not keeping him from you. You’ve always been welcome,” you say curtly. “It was your choice never to set foot in my house.”

“No, Emily. It was your choice to marry into that sick family and create a child whose legacy is rooted in greed and violence.”

“Save me the self-righteous bullshit, mom.” You scoff, pushing yourself off the kitchen island. This was a bad idea coming here. You’re not even sure what compelled you to make the trip. Maybe, subconsciously, being apart from your son for so long had you seeking out the comfort of a mother — something you hadn’t really felt from Dita ever since you slowly situated yourself within the cartel’s inner circle. “You don’t know Miguel. You never gave him a chance.”

“I don’t need to know the man to know what his family has done to people on the other side of the border.” She pauses and takes a steadying breath. “Your father and I — we talked about the atrocities that family has committed. You were there with us, listening at the dinner table. You agreed with us. You told us you wanted to be a lawyer so you could help people find asylum in this country, and yet you marry him? What was it, Emily? Was your heart so broken that you wanted to rebel against the world? Become someone you’re not?”

“I fell in love.”

She sighs. “You were angry.”

“I don’t have to justify anything to you, but I know how I felt then and I know what I feel now.”

“You were scared of being alone.”

You pace toward the hallway, and turn on your heel. You don’t mean to raise your voice, especially in one of the quietest streets in town, but your mother has a way of pushing your buttons. “You don’t know a thing! Ever since dad left, you’ve been so addicted to your own misery while putting on this facade that everything’s fine. You know, business as usual, right? That’s what you’ve been doing for at least half your marriage — pretending like you two were happy, like you didn’t resent him for moving the family to this godforsaken desert. Dad’s silence and absence. Your passive aggressive remarks, all the baking and the doting housewife bullshit to hang over his head to make him feel like he was the bad guy. You still think that way, don’t you? You still think it’s all his fault.” You watch as she stares at you with wide eyes, as if she has the audacity to be offended. “Of course you do. You believe only what you want to believe; you don’t have a clue what is and isn’t real.”

“Don’t you dare talk to me like that.”

“Or what?” You challenge back as you storm down the hall, toward the front door. “You’ll kick me out because I’ll stop playing along with your fantasy?”

Your mother leans against the banister, her bottom lip quivering as she attempts to keep her tears from falling. “Is it so wrong to want someone safe and stable for my daughter?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t say yes to the first nice, hard-working man to ask me to marry him.” You open the door and feel the cool, evening breeze. Out on the street, the black SUV is parked and Tiago stands waiting by the passenger side door. When you turn to face your mother, it’s like looking at a mirror of who you were eight years ago — heartbroken, angry, scared of being alone. And you were those things when you met Miguel. But you didn’t say yes when he got down on one knee for those reasons. She’ll never understand no matter how many times you needlessly justify it. “When I was growing up, you and dad showed me what a safe and stable marriage looked like. You were married, lived under the same roof, yet so distant from each other. Was it for my sake? Or was it because neither of you could admit that you had made a mistake and stopped loving each other so long ago?”

“Why did you come here, Emily?”

“I —” You shake your head. “I don’t know. Clearly, it was a mistake.”

“Maybe you do love him,” she concedes. “But maybe, if he was right for you, you wouldn’t be here.”

“Goodbye, mom.”

Your mother watches at the doorway as you make it back to the car. As soon as you hit the sidewalk, she puts on a cheery voice. “Next time you come over with the baby, let me know beforehand. I want to make him a fresh batch of shortbread.”

[doth-quoth]

Poem #016: The One That Left...

15 years ago to this day was the time you left our lives. I didn’t know I’d never see you again, never got to say goodbye. Life cut short at forty-eight, fate can be a cruel mistress. I didn’t ask why or react at first, before by delayed-reaction my tears burst. My dad wrapped arms around and wept.

You walked out of life with calm reassurance, a headache shrugged off “I’m fine” you said. No one saw that two weeks later you’d be dead. The pain inside remains. My soul is clasped in iron chains locked with no key to release it. It hurts much harder when thoughts of you hit.

I was playing a game when the call came, You should’ve been home in 40 minutes and I waiting to hear the front door knowing instinctively you were in from work, rushing down stairs to hug you home. Instead you was being rushed to hospital I was rushed away to stay with my aunt as though I was in the way. Never once got to see you before you died. I always regretted that. Always will.

Annie’s Song played at your funeral. The words have darker meaning now: The forest has burnt, the mountains have collapsed, the rain has ceased, the desert is wrought with death, the ocean is acid.

When I look to your photo for good memories to see I don’t feel happy, only pain and sorrow, only empty and hollow. You're not here where you should be.

The loss of you I still feel. the hole never will truly heal. The role can’t be refilled. A broken pillar that we can’t rebuild. I don’t think I’ll ever get over it.

15 years you’ve been gone. Life has moved on but I haven’t. I still miss you. It still fucking hurts. I never got to tell you these precious few words:

“Goodbye mum. Love you, will always miss you.”

So... author’s note. Usually I have one, so I guess I’ll feel I’ll add more background to this... if it wasn’t blazingly obvious from the poem what the topic is about.

About 15 years and two weeks ago today, at approximately 5.30pm, when my family was gearing up for Christmas, my brother had my first nephew on the way and I was looking forward to the Christmas holidays from my first year of secondary school, a phone call came through to the house phone. I was sat upstairs at the time playing a video game, before i received a shout to turn it off and come downstairs.

The phone call was from the hospital, who’d just rang my dad to tell him my mum had been rushed in after collapsing in the supermarket on her way home from work. I don’t know if it was my dad trying to protect me from the whole commotion of rushing around, or if he felt I would just be in the way, or whatever, but I was sent to stay with my aunt around the corner, not completely understanding the situation itself. I’m assuming it’s because he wasn’t in much of a state to look after me with the stress of everything.

I recalled him telling my brother, or my aunt that he should’ve told her to go to the hospital earlier in the day, when she complained of a strong, sharp sudden onset of pain in her head. Instead she shrugged it off as nothing, told him it passed, she was fine and went off to work. Guess what, it wasn’t fucking nothing.

The death certificate, lists it as a subarachnoid haemorrhage, a rupturing of a blood vessel that causes a bleed on the brain, an aneurysm. Life threatening and in need of emergency surgery. Without release, it causes a build-up of pressure, that left untreated eventually causes loss of consciousness and irreparable brain damage. Typically these are made at greater risks by weaknesses in the cell walls. They’re not guaranteed to burst, but they’re at risk of it. Risk factors also include smoking (she was a smoker), family history (her mum died of it, from what I heard, in front of her), head injuries, excessive alcohol consumption and high blood pressure. It doesn’t necessarily come on over time either, it is sudden when it happens and that kinda makes it harder to accept, because not everyone sees it coming. It’s kinda the reason why I’m a little bit adamant when it comes to people who have chronic headaches or something to get them checked.

There is usually a 1-in-3 chance of survival (if treatment and diagnosis is received immediately), to make a full recovery, 1-in-3 chance of survival with varied loss of brain function, or 1-in-3 chance of death (if not caught in time). Hers wasn’t caught in time. She was in intensive care for two weeks before there was no detectable brain activity. She was essentially brain dead with only life support keeping her heart going when my dad OK’d them to turn the machine off.

Never once in that time, I saw her in hospital. Maybe my family wanted to protect me from seeing her with so many tubes and pipes and whatnot, not responding to people. I don’t know. I never asked him, it’s not something I perhaps what to get into a discussion about. The only thing I do know now is that I wish I had.... because perhaps it would’ve helped down the line. I don’t know. It’s speculative, but it’s something I’ve deeply regretted ever since. I never saw her again

My dad came to see me after that decision was made, to tell me she had gone. He wrapped his arms around me and wept for a few minutes, I sat motionless. I didn’t react immediately. It didn’t register until afterwards, when my cousin entered the room, and asked if I didn’t care. It took that for it to register completely and I cried into her arms.

The funeral was held a few days before Christmas. She was given a cremation, her ashes still sit in a small casket at home with a little doll sat on top, sat waiting for the day when it is time for my dad to go, to have their ashes mixed, reunited and sprinkled on a favourite holiday spot of theirs. She was cremated to John Denver’s Annie’s Song (you know, the on that goes You Fill Up My Senses).

Her photo has stayed with me in my room ever since though. Sat there, with a small lock of her hair in the frame. That photo is probably the one thing that will follow me to any place I move. Unfortunately the lock of hair is becoming loose and move around in the picture. I need to find a way to rebind it (somewhat) and secure it there again, but I’m also a little bit reluctant to open the frame and take it out because it’s something I don’t want to lose and it is easy to lose. It’s the one possession in my life that is never going to change, never going to disappear.

Truth be told, I don’t think I’ve ever properly grieved, even to this day... or perhaps it’s because I’ve never properly talked about my feelings. I’ve kinda left them to one side over the years and there is perhaps only one other person who I have told. They might eventually read this when it’s published and reblogged to my main, if they’re awake and scroll past it at some point if their time zone allows. They know who they are, they’ll probably mention it to me at some point in fact. I want to give them a massive thank you for the help they’ve given me over the years figuring stuff out. Thank you.

I want to round this note off now. There is a truth that is probably left unacknowledged to some, that people who have experienced profound loss come to realise in time. That truth is that the pain of loss, it never ever really truly goes away. The hole it leaves is never ever able to be filled. Time may be called a healer, and it does help a bit, it closes up a bit, but it always remains with you, that one person you’ve lost in your life that can never be replaced. Be it parents, friends, partners, pets, etc. You learn to cope with it, you accept they’re gone and not coming back, but you will never stop missing them. Never, no matter how much time has passed. It may not be every single day, but there are days, moments in life you will wish they are there.

As much as that hurts though, it’s also still acknowledgement of the bond you shared. I guess if there is a comfort somewhere in it all, there is that. But still, it remains shit to feel sometimes and there are still times it pulls at you to remind you it is still there.

Anyway that’s it. I’ve said all I can on the topic.

Love you mum, always… and I’ll miss you, always.

[buffalojournal]

Three Poems by Danika Stegeman LeMay

[Vaccine] Lines for Days

We washed ourselves in [vaccine] light and forgot there was a world outside.

[Vaccines] treble every current.

[Vaccinate] the birds in your mind.

Geese shift into [vaccination].

I’m telegraphing what I need to to the [vaccine] people.

I search for a substitute for recado, a Belizean [vaccine] that basically has no substitute.

I write a poem about how we’re [vaccinating] each other like zombies, and then I order a bunch of shit on Amazon: bone folder, beeswax, punch awl.

[Vaccinate] the algorithms.

A teenage girl sitting behind me keeps saying my name, but she’s not talking to me, she’s talking about her friend who shares my [vaccine].

Everything you see on the news is an elaborate [vaccination] that will be revealed as a fraud in a few hyper surreal days.

People you trust start to relate stories that can’t possibly be [vaccine]-based.

Even the Super Bowl [vaccinated] me, and I didn’t watch any of it.

Watch [vaccine] logos dance across monolithic screens.

In the middle of a long oppressive hall of old white men’s faces, we come to a special exhibition of [vaccination] in a small alcove.

The acrid smell of [vaccine] lingers near the cellar stairs.

It’s Wednesday morning, and I’m driving on the freeway in the desolation of a peregrine falcon frozen on the median, its [vaccines] tucked up against its body.

Whether it signals admission or disavowal, the silence [vaccinates] me.

Cloud the house; brush its threshold with [vaccine].

After a month of [vaccination], the [vaccine] is 80% contained.

Renewal happens when the [vaccine] is out.

No comfort like the sound of [vaccines] compressed beneath [vaccinations] trailing rays of headlights.

I breathe [vaccines] of relief as other people's parents are [vaccinated].

From the back of my throat I recount to myself “my [vaccine] is dead. my [vaccine] is dead.”

Because the [vaccine] must reconcile with what the [vaccination] carries.

I box [vaccines] in pencil and blank [vaccination] records.

I cut words and paste [vaccines].

I scan, [vaccinate] and [vaccinate] the text.

I [vaccinate] and [vaccinate] and slip [vaccinations] back in.

I [vaccinate] and then thread the [vaccines] into a [vaccination].

She pours Hugh another cup of hot [vaccine].

And so begins the [vaccination] of the deep ocean.

I don’t like this [vaccination]; I press it into a nest for the other [vaccinations] to rest in.

I call this [vaccine] on newsprint “may the [vaccination] be with you.”

I keep re-watching Criminal Minds episodes because for some reason seeing pretend people use soft science to solve pretend [vaccinations] of other pretend people makes me feel less awful.

Oh to be fashioned by a beam of pure [vaccine].

The headline should read “[Vaccine] Confronts a Piano-Less Future.”

The stars were all [vaccinated].

It feels good to be in the [vaccination] of space.

...

No Drought But Green

I’m listening to Saturn again. The cards keep telling me no, but I keep pulling them anyway. It’s another way to sleepwalk.

The self can be detached from the body and live a phantom existence on its own. I dreamed of desert years before I encountered one.

I keep casting spells, but I’m not sure this is the kind of magic that works. [ wood creaking softly/twisting. ] Moths infest my closets. [ soft abrasive sounds. ] First, I type “closests.”

Say something about arc: I keep tripping over trapdoors.

Say something about character development: No more hot girl.

Say something about structure: Morning glories will climb any surface.

Say something about fire: We carry similar torches.

Say something about denouement: Enter rain.

I release terror in my dreams or I store terror in my dreams. I release rage in my dreams or I store rage in my dreams.

The animals are dying or the trees are dying. The animals are dying and the trees are dying.

Each week the creekbed tongues less creek. I approximate the place where the trees’ roots interlace and let the hose run.

You remind me we write from concern for the things we love. In a forest, species with similar needs occur together. Familiars intersperse to swathe apertures across sympathetic regions.

Some areas destroyed by fire are quickly reseeded. Some barks are flammable even when wet. Some branch systems form impenetrable thickets. Some trees lift round, spreading crowns; some wear irregular, open crowns.

I implore the seeds to invade our abandoned soils and cutover lands. Stem joins twig to blade of leaf. Fascicled or clustered, enclosed or without sheath. To be deciduous means to shed. To be evergreen is to persist.

My sycamore, frequently toothed, your buds are exposed, encircled by leaf scar. Your fruit breaks apart in rasp of voice meant to incept longing. Your bark peels thin, irregular in patches. A silhouette cast across silhouettes. Backdrop of forest, soundstage dappled into pinholed sky.

I make you a safe place, but the place isn’t a real place, which is problematic. No green but drought.

There are things I can’t ask like does the future take multiple shapes? There are things I won’t ask like where do you curl in? There are things I can’t ask like does your jaw throb from the roots? There are things I won’t ask like is this place liveable?

I envision the line between us a ribbon I can’t/won’t cut. No drought but green.

I don’t know where you are, but it’s nearly fall, and soon you’ll cover your face with leaves.

* Italicized line in stanza 2 is from The Body Keeps the Score by Bessel van der Kolk.

...

No One Spells

No one spells your name right. The transposed letters make me lonely, and I’m not sure what to do about that. I consider alchemy. I consider departure. I consider every circle within sight: hoop, pattern, vessel, ring. Birds build a nest in my porch light. Abide in a reservoir, my sacred heart. I cut cardstock intended for an oracle deck. Relief by proxy.

🦬 Danika Stegeman LeMay

[dfroza]

Today’s reading in the ancient book of Psalms and Proverbs

for february 9 of 2020 with Psalm 9 and Proverbs 9, accompanied by Psalm 51 for the 51st day of Winter, and Psalm 40 for day 40 of the year that reminds me of the alphabetic number 40 of the word “coffee”

[Psalm 9]

A David Psalm

I’m thanking you, God, from a full heart,

I’m writing the book on your wonders.

I’m whistling, laughing, and jumping for joy;

I’m singing your song, High God.

The day my enemies turned tail and ran,

they stumbled on you and fell on their faces.

You took over and set everything right;

when I needed you, you were there, taking charge.

You blow the whistle on godless nations;

you throw dirty players out of the game,

wipe their names right off the roster.

Enemies disappear from the sidelines,

their reputation trashed,

their names erased from the halls of fame.

God holds the high center,

he sees and sets the world’s mess right.

He decides what is right for us earthlings,

gives people their just deserts.

God’s a safe-house for the battered,

a sanctuary during bad times.

The moment you arrive, you relax;

you’re never sorry you knocked.

Sing your songs to Zion-dwelling God,

tell his stories to everyone you meet:

How he tracks down killers

yet keeps his eye on us,

registers every whimper and moan.

Be kind to me, God;

I’ve been kicked around long enough.

Once you’ve pulled me back

from the gates of death,

I’ll write the book on Hallelujahs;

on the corner of Main and First

I’ll hold a street meeting;

I’ll be the song leader; we’ll fill the air

with salvation songs.

They’re trapped, those godless countries,

in the very snares they set,

Their feet all tangled

in the net they spread.

They have no excuse;

the way God works is well-known.

The cunning machinery made by the wicked

has maimed their own hands.

The wicked bought a one-way

ticket to hell.

No longer will the poor be nameless—

no more humiliation for the humble.

Up, God! Aren’t you fed up with their empty strutting?

Expose these grand pretensions!

Shake them up, God!

Show them how silly they look.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 9 (The Message)

[Psalm 51]

A David Psalm, After He Was Confronted by Nathan About the Affair with Bathsheba

Generous in love—God, give grace!

Huge in mercy—wipe out my bad record.

Scrub away my guilt,

soak out my sins in your laundry.

I know how bad I’ve been;

my sins are staring me down.

You’re the One I’ve violated, and you’ve seen

it all, seen the full extent of my evil.

You have all the facts before you;

whatever you decide about me is fair.

I’ve been out of step with you for a long time,

in the wrong since before I was born.

What you’re after is truth from the inside out.

Enter me, then; conceive a new, true life.

Soak me in your laundry and I’ll come out clean,

scrub me and I’ll have a snow-white life.

Tune me in to foot-tapping songs,

set these once-broken bones to dancing.

Don’t look too close for blemishes,

give me a clean bill of health.

God, make a fresh start in me,

shape a Genesis week from the chaos of my life.

Don’t throw me out with the trash,

or fail to breathe holiness in me.

Bring me back from gray exile,

put a fresh wind in my sails!

Give me a job teaching rebels your ways

so the lost can find their way home.

Commute my death sentence, God, my salvation God,

and I’ll sing anthems to your life-giving ways.

Unbutton my lips, dear God;

I’ll let loose with your praise.

Going through the motions doesn’t please you,

a flawless performance is nothing to you.

I learned God-worship

when my pride was shattered.

Heart-shattered lives ready for love

don’t for a moment escape God’s notice.

Make Zion the place you delight in,

repair Jerusalem’s broken-down walls.

Then you’ll get real worship from us,

acts of worship small and large,

Including all the bulls

they can heave onto your altar!

The Book of Psalms, Poem 51 (The Message)

[Psalm 40]

A David Psalm

I waited and waited and waited for God.

At last he looked; finally he listened.

He lifted me out of the ditch,

pulled me from deep mud.

He stood me up on a solid rock

to make sure I wouldn’t slip.

He taught me how to sing the latest God-song,

a praise-song to our God.

More and more people are seeing this:

they enter the mystery,

abandoning themselves to God.

Blessed are you who give yourselves over to God,

turn your backs on the world’s “sure thing,”

ignore what the world worships;

The world’s a huge stockpile

of God-wonders and God-thoughts.

Nothing and no one

comes close to you!

I start talking about you, telling what I know,

and quickly run out of words.

Neither numbers nor words

account for you.

Doing something for you, bringing something to you—

that’s not what you’re after.

Being religious, acting pious—

that’s not what you’re asking for.

You’ve opened my ears

so I can listen.

So I answered, “I’m coming.

I read in your letter what you wrote about me,

And I’m coming to the party

you’re throwing for me.”

That’s when God’s Word entered my life,

became part of my very being.

I’ve preached you to the whole congregation,

I’ve kept back nothing, God—you know that.

I didn’t keep the news of your ways

a secret, didn’t keep it to myself.

I told it all, how dependable you are, how thorough.

I didn’t hold back pieces of love and truth

For myself alone. I told it all,

let the congregation know the whole story.

Now God, don’t hold out on me,

don’t hold back your passion.

Your love and truth

are all that keeps me together.

When troubles ganged up on me,

a mob of sins past counting,

I was so swamped by guilt

I couldn’t see my way clear.

More guilt in my heart than hair on my head,

so heavy the guilt that my heart gave out.

Soften up, God, and intervene;

hurry and get me some help,

So those who are trying to kidnap my soul

will be embarrassed and lose face,

So anyone who gets a kick out of making me miserable

will be heckled and disgraced,

So those who pray for my ruin

will be booed and jeered without mercy.

But all who are hunting for you—

oh, let them sing and be happy.

Let those who know what you’re all about

tell the world you’re great and not quitting.

And me? I’m a mess. I’m nothing and have nothing:

make something of me.

You can do it; you’ve got what it takes—

but God, don’t put it off.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 40 (The Message)

[Proverbs 9]

[Lady Wisdom Gives a Dinner Party]

Lady Wisdom has built and furnished her home;

it’s supported by seven hewn timbers.

The banquet meal is ready to be served: lamb roasted,

wine poured out, table set with silver and flowers.

Having dismissed her serving maids,

Lady Wisdom goes to town, stands in a prominent place,

and invites everyone within sound of her voice:

“Are you confused about life, don’t know what’s going on?

Come with me, oh come, have dinner with me!

I’ve prepared a wonderful spread—fresh-baked bread,

roast lamb, carefully selected wines.

Leave your impoverished confusion and live!

Walk up the street to a life with meaning.”

If you reason with an arrogant cynic, you’ll get slapped in the face;

confront bad behavior and get a kick in the shins.

So don’t waste your time on a scoffer;

all you’ll get for your pains is abuse.

But if you correct those who care about life,

that’s different—they’ll love you for it!

Save your breath for the wise—they’ll be wiser for it;

tell good people what you know—they’ll profit from it.

Skilled living gets its start in the Fear-of-God,

insight into life from knowing a Holy God.

It’s through me, Lady Wisdom, that your life deepens,

and the years of your life ripen.

Live wisely and wisdom will permeate your life;

mock life and life will mock you.

[Madame Whore Calls Out, Too]

Then there’s this other woman, Madame Whore—

brazen, empty-headed, frivolous.

She sits on the front porch

of her house on Main Street,

And as people walk by minding

their own business, calls out,

“Are you confused about life, don’t know what’s going on?

Steal off with me, I’ll show you a good time!

No one will ever know—I’ll give you the time of your life.”

But they don’t know about all the skeletons in her closet,

that all her guests end up in hell.

The Book of Proverbs, Chapter 9 (The Message)

[legalist217]

Do Voldemort/Snape/Umbridge lmao

I think you’re overestimating my ability to not be creative about the situation, as well as my self-preservation and my interest in women because that’s what makes Umbridge rank worst from an SO perspective. (she’s not even a pretty woman, she’s a super gross woman inside and out, so it does nothing for me on any level, meh, bleh, weh)

This got lengthy so it’s under a cut, you’re welcome, enjoy. And I bothered to put these into exactly no logical canon timeframe. 

Well get this out of the way, fake date umbridge. because I will find ways to mortify her. I will drag her to youmacon. I will point out a photograph taken of Nancy Pelosi in a pink suit with all the Senate pages and then assure her that, no, of course you’re just as pretty in your headmistress photo as that Muggle politician is. Why would there even be a comparison. dear. [this is a real photo that we saw being taken at the Capitol when we toured circa HBP’s film coming out; we had to stifle giggles] 

And then arrange a scenario where she’s jailed for tax evasion. I’m not marrying the toad; no fifth amendment protections for non-spouse SOs as I recall. I assume MACUSA can ensure she’s put somewhere good and tedious. 

(note: this is the only scenario where I envisioned it happening in america)

now, hm. I guess I would slow burn Voldemort because I reckon if you’re his stated enemy, that’s probably not a changeable status. He’s all emotionally stunted in that way. So enemies to lovers doesn’t seem plausible. So, then, I guess I’m some Bellatrix-esque tart, except, well, myself. So rather than wetting myself over THE DAHHK LAWD, I’m just mildly amused at his fascist goals. “That’s a way to do it, I suppose, but hate’s a pretty tedious method to carry on with the world, and let’s remember that you never actually held power long term *ducks AK* so maybe something less... Hitlery? Oh don’t look at me like that, you grew up in muggle-trash London, you know who Hitler is.” 

And it goes on and on and on and on and on and it is a slow burn because he’s incapable of love and I think the best we manage for much of the run before the author begins developing carpal tunnel is “I barely tolerate her because she has 0.01% of a point; I tell the others she is too amusing to kill.” At least now I have slytherin creds to brandish to get a foot in the door. 

And being endlessly at such a tenuous “I guess that was almost funny, so I won’t murder you?” stage, I don’t have to figure out how to kiss a noseless man or how to deal with a jealous pet snek. 

you’re going to regret this

Enemies to lovers is a very tolerable way to deal with Snape, given the options on this playing field. Professors who tell you that your answer is wrong only for the right answer to be “the same thing but because I said it, it’s right” are my least fuckin faves. Snape treads close to that territory. 

But again, I have slytherin creds now. I’m also quite impulsive, so I can see myself writing him an annoyed owl after a class detailing specific moments where his behavior decreased the educational advantage to Housemates and how this is him not being a benefit to team and should I go to Dumbledore about this; like give that one gryffindor kid double shit, dude might deserve it for all I know [I am bad at popular gossip when it comes to school IRL], but stop fuckin it up for us and maybe for other students who are genuinely trying, ya pissant. And while Snape is very much a pissant, I think he also cares a lot about the House. And to a degree, his job; he definitely gave a fuck when he was sixteen about teaching potions because he was rewriting the goddamned book. 

So, I dunno, maybe I can get through to him. I still get detention for unmitigated sass, but I knew that’d happen. Too bad he doesn’t realize how much I am wont to chat while working. And I have an IRL habit of roping even introverts into talking with me when I’m inclined to. What’s he gonna do, give me more detention? I don’t give a shit. I’ll clean this office and every office. Why the hell not. Castle’s an interesting place. How often do I get an elf’s eye view of the place? And anyway are there any good articles out on lacewing colony collapse disorder, because I hear that might screw over the polyjuice industry? Any good places to write? Lacewings are aptly named, you gotta admit. They need more words devoted to them. And then I force him to read my poetry because who the fuck else here knows about lacewings aside from maybe Hagrid who has automatic distrust of green robes? He tells me it sucks. I grin. (I cry later, but that’s not because he said it, just because no one wants to hear that their poem sucks in such flat words.)

In real life, I’m still in touch with some of my professors after graduation and some of them have outright said they think of me as a friend. I wouldn’t date them, because they are married and I am sensible and they are twice my age and the list goes on. But this is a forced narrative scenario, and given my dating history and its repeated Bad Calls, I can see me writing longer and more detailed letters than just “hey got a new job at Witch Weekly doing book reviews, it’s basically whatever’s on the Prophet’s best-seller list minus anything too difficult for a stay-at-home witch to bother with.” He writes back terse one-liners if I’m lucky. I still write a lot, because it makes me feel better about my sorta boring life. 

At some point, I dust off the old lacewing scroll and laugh at how bad it was. But the core idea of hiding oneself in another’s reflection has merit, so I rework it. Dredge up old textbooks to reference other ingredients of common potions, because Moste Potente Potions is still a restricted book so maybe not hinting at the recipe in a poem is a good call.  It’s eventually as done as this version’s going to be. I send it to him. 

It comes back around Christmas with the word “Better.” swirled in the corner. I tack it to the wall and write more. Sometimes they come back with tiny checkmarks by specific lines. I find myself quietly tallying those, like they’re gold stars and I’m back in primary school. And I have to stifle a gasp when one has a note saying he’d copied a version for himself. I can’t help imagining it pinned up on his fridge, him seeing it every day. That image is childish, but it gets me through bleak times. 

It’s a year before a poem I didn’t write comes back to me. It is so laughably bad that I’m in tears of laughter for half the night, but then, reading through it, they end up just tears. Who the fuck is this about, because none of the imagery fits me. It’s all flowers of the valley and gentle prey animals. Drawing from my name would be angels or wolves or birds of prey. Who the fuck, then, is this, and why am I sobbing. 

Printed at the bottom is a one-word question: Thoughts?

It’s all I can do not to crumple the stupid parchment and chuck it in the flames. Who is she. Who the hell would put up with such an obnoxious, icy, sneering, greasy, loser? I glance in the mirror. Who indeed. 

It’s a pathetic weekend spent balled up under a comforter trying to figure out how to rationally handle whatever the hell this is. But like I said, I’m impulsive. I have just enough Floo powder on hand, as well, and my head pokes out into a dingy flat. I think he nearly blacks out, he’s that startled. He does the many-blinking thing. 

I arrive swiftly at the point, which is to say that I sob inelegantly and the tears sizzle amid the flames. But I make my demands known through the mouthfuls of ash, both real and simply felt. Who is this other woman you’d write poetry to. 

Black eyes should be flat. His have too much depth at moments like these. There’s too much available to read. I don’t want to know that he knows I’m not crying on his behalf. He runs absent fingers through his hair as he looks at me, a gesture I’d forgotten to miss. Then he explains he wasn’t sure how to title it, which is why there wasn’t one. But it would have been an elegy. His way of burying the past.

I point out that repression isn’t healthy. At least, I think I do. Details are so hazy here in the fire. 

He kneels before me and says that is correct, if such be the case. But one must part with the past to allow for new beginnings. 

Lips brush there in the flames. And then I’m laughing. He pulls back, and I regret it just a little for how hurt those eyes are. Why do I laugh? “That poem sucked!” I shriek, before dragging myself back through the fires to my own hearth, where I lie laughing hysterically for quite some time. 

Years later, Elegy to the Valley is deemed complete. I walk with him as far as the gate, but let him enter the graveyard alone. It is summer, and I trace patterns in the warm metal, trying not to watch his shoulders shaking as he reads it to her. If he needs me, I can be there in a moment. But I would rather watch and mentally write my own poem of this moment instead. He will probably produce something about today as well. We will trade parchments and leave spare, biting comments. But our fingers will interlace at the end of the day. It suffices. 

The sky is tinged ruddy gold when he arrives back at the gate. We walk briskly to the end of the street. It’s not that we stand out; he still knows the Muggle ways. Still, this is a leonine place not meant for us. Time we made our excuses and left.

The corner is deserted. I see his eyes wander back over the church and the graves beside. I remind him he can always return. He shakes his head. “This is a parting of the ways.” He takes my hand, and we go twisting into the dark. 

so yeah, that’s what shipping me with snape looks like; any questions?

[poppunkdee]

3-5, 28-30, 35-40

whoa okay everyone sorry for the long post someone decided to give me a million in one ask. 

3. okay so this person idk what to even say about them anymore I hardly know who or what they are like now but I guess ill talk about them when I was irrationally in love with them. They had a way to make me feel at home no matter how far from home I was. That person was super smart (to me) they had a charisma that allowed them to creep into your life and later your heart, and had you liking them even if at first you thought they were just another fake person trying super hard to be “cool” they had a way to get under your skin, to make you laugh until you’re crying and hold your attention in a way that you never really thought they might be able to. Honestly this person made me feel so many things and not all of them were good, in fact looking back now I realized that I excused so much shitty behavior towards me because of a fancy dinner, or a cute poem, or a dozen roses. God i was so in love with them and its sad really how now its just a faded memory of a person who never apologized for the hell they put me through. 

4. the thing I regret most so far is not going to the ivy league school I was accepted into bc it meant I would be far from the person mentioned above. 

5. Oh fuck. Honestly I have not had any like “amazing” birthdays. My most memorable birthdays are seared into my memory bc I was either in a funeral home, in a hospital watching my cousin fight cancer, or I myself was in the hospital bc a car almost killed me(yay 24th birthday!) really I have most fun when I celebrate my birthday alone at disneyland, which I do every year although not on my actual birthday bc it seems that on my actual birthday I’m always caught up in some kind of hospital, or receiving bad news. 

28. honestly idk if i have any like crazy out there fetishes, like dirty talk and rough sex is cool but like idk if i really have like one odd thing. I mean one of my exes and I got hella drunk one night and decided to do all the shit we had wanted to do and lemmi tell you that was a full weekend of endless orgasms and take out food. It was amazing. I had rope burn on my thighs and was sore for a week after and he had like a million hickies from his neck to his dick. 

29. okay turn ons so like these depend on the person im seeing, like for one person their voice as they whisper in my ear might end me while for another the way they bite their lip and run their fingers through their hair might have me thinking of how those fingers might feel on me. so really I don’t have like one singular set of turn ons they just vary depending on the person. 

30.OHHH TURN OFFS THO. so these will literally dry me up like the Sahara desert and make me grab my shit and leave kyle’s house. If I say "men are trash” and the guy replies with “well not all men.... “ yeah ya cancelled. okay this one is shallow I know but its there and i really cant get past it, bad dental hygiene. the white ppl who try to have dreadlocks but really they haven’t washed their hair. ANY NON BLACK PERSON SAYING THE N WORD. I can go on really bc I’m super picky with the people I sleep with and i have actually mid thrust have told a guy to stop, got dressed, left and blocked him. 

35. Things i wish I could stop doing, okay so like as yall know my anxiety gets the best of me sometimes and I wish I could stop the nail biting. Also I need to stop expecting my body to go back to how it was before my car accident, like my spine is forever hurt and i really have to learn to accept that there are somethings i just cant do anymore and its not my fault there are limitations on my body so i should stop expecting to be able to go back to the gym like i used to, or do all the adventurous activities i used to do, also I wish I could go back to driving like i used to without the PTSD fear running through me every time a big rig is next to me on the freeway. 

36, okay so as of rn my guilty pleasure is that I read the twilight books bc my roommates got me into it and like holy shit i went through the whole saga in less than a weekend and I now need to rewatch the movies. honestly thank god for this gay twilight renaissance I’m living. But really tumblr is full of my guilty pleasures so like just scroll through my blog bc its all there, half of this shit is not on any of my public social media,.... or wait actually i think it is, i don’t really hide who i am so like it definitely has affected the way people judge me before they really know me but i know the people that are my friends after seeing the shit i post kinda really like me.  

37. Damn okay so this is kinda, ugh, okay so im sure my best friend is tired of me running back to this person but like i like ppl who ruin me i guess. So this person and I started dating after i had gone through like a horrible breakup, AND I got the news that my uterus is like a war zone for new cells(make of that what you will). Anyways here I am five months into a depressive episode i cut off all the people that i had thought were friends but who turned out to abandon me when i needed them the most. so here enters this person with their puppy dog love and gives me wonderful dirty kinky sex along with the hugs, cuddles, after care and takes me to these cool experiences in the city I thought I knew. They support my dreams and help me work towards them, honestly it was a great three months, but this person told me they loved me one night while at a night club and i thought hey youre drunk pls don’t do this and honestly it was mostly cowardliness that drove me to end it bc i didn’t feel the same way and i felt like i didnt deserve this new pure love i was receiving.  Anyways we hooked up a bit after we broke up and then they started dating someone else and we just kinda saw other people but would come back to each other after our different flings ended, until they got into like a real relationship with some one else and like I was cool like they deserve it, could have used a heads up but like i keep my space like the respectful person that i am, although lately this person has told me they are not into the person they are with and has been hitting me up and like the part of me that thinks im in love with them is really pushing for me to go for it but also they ARE STILL IN A RELATIONSHIP AND ITS NOT OKAY THAT THEY ARE SENDING ME MESSAGES LIKE THIS!! so anyways i think im more in love with the feeling they brought me those few months we were together bc i was just so fucking depressed and they helped pull me out of the hole i was in. So not really in love with the person but with the feeling i guess. 

38. songs that remind me of people. oh god, yall can i just make a spotify playlist and link it later bc theres so many. I have a few songs for like everyone that I know that i can make playlists for individual people so like i’ll just link a playlist when get around to it pls remind me later. 

39. OHHHH BOYYY. things i wish i had known earlier. i wish i had known men are trash earlier in life so that i would have been somewhat prepared for the men that caused trauma in my life. I also wish i had known how little time i had with certain people. (people i regret not making more time with) Also wish I had known about the accident that had me in a hospital on my birthday bc a year later im still plagued by nightmares, PTSD, and anxiety on the road. I also wish I had known about my cousin’s accident. GOd if there’s one thing i’ve had to learn the hard way this past year is that we never know when it will be the last time we see our loved ones and that we have GOT to tell them we love them bc we NEVER know when it will be the last time.  

40.okay last one, the end of something in my life. I wanna talk about a good ending bc i feel like yall got some insight on bad shit so like good endings i’d say is when i left socal for norcal. I come back literally anytime im homesick but like it was a huge step for me to take to leave, I was given a full scholarship to the wilderness and an apartment thats a ten min walk to the beach. It was definitely hard leaving all my friends and family behind but it was also kind of refreshing to be able to go out on my own to make my own path and do something i love. im back in socal for the summer and although im so happy to be back in the warmth of LA im definitely looking forward to my small apartment that constantly smells like a mix of sea breeze and damp forest. 

[jomiddlemarch]

Above this sceptred sway

She did not remember the voyage. She remembered Jedediah’s face, his dark eyes looking at her with such warm encouragement and sorrow, his voice reciting the poem, the brief touch of his lips on her skin, the way it felt to hold his hand and have to let it go and the rest was missing until she’d awoken in the plain room with nurse Miss Dix sent sitting beside her, reading a small book, not the Bible. If it had been Jedediah next to her, he might have looked tired from a night spent in the unforgiving chair but the hand that lay on the counterpane would have been clasped in his and the smile she would have been given would have shadowed the sun. She had not been able to help thinking of him first and she had not been able to help the tears that filled her eyes when she recognized she was not in Alexandria, he was not going to knock on the door and enter before he was bidden, nor would Sister Isabella spent the afternoon telling her rosary with Mary’s permission to be relieved by the arrival of the Executive Officer and a slim volume of Dryden and his curated complaints of the day. Mrs. Garland had seen how she wept and was dabbing at her face with a dampened handkerchief before Mary could utter a word, had soothed her without the Southern accent Mary had grown accustomed to, “there now” repeated and not “hush.” She had been well-tended, bathed and her hair re-plaited, and dosed with a tonic and an infinitely more sustaining cup of tea but none of it changed the aching loneliness Mary knew she would carry with her until, unless she saw Jedediah again. She had wanted to turn her back on Mrs. Garland and cry into the thin pillow but the older woman had been wise and more kindly than she expected, reminding her, “He said he would come before long, my dear…and he seemed an impatient man,” making Mary smile and agree to take some broth when it was offered, try to rest when she could take no more.

 They had stayed four days at the boarding house before Cousin Agnes arrived after a flurry of telegrams whose expense Mary expected to be deplored the remainder of the journey home; she was to stay with her sister Caroline who had not been able to leave her little boys behind, a veritable regiment of tow-heads. Mary knew she had said she had nowhere to go but it hadn’t been the truth; anywhere away from Jedediah had seemed a desert, an expulsion from Eden for Eve alone. The few days in Washington City had been made of sleep and a childish hope to find him beside her when she woke, of tears she learned to save for the moonless night, of finding the pain in her head, her every joint, that studded her spine and filled her belly was somehow so much worse without his footstep on the threshold, his hand at her wrist, the dreams that patched the day to night more ruthless savagery except when they were the sweetest anguish—his arms around her, his voice in her ear telling her how he loved her, his finger under her chin, lifting it for his kiss after calling her dearest or Molly or May, the most seductive, entrancing comfort that never came true. She did not grow stronger or not very much, but she didn’t weaken and she was able to sit in the chair by the window and look out into the street, to see people intent upon their business, the lines of buildings she didn’t know, the sky the same enameled blue lozenge in the pane. She was able to take up her pen and write to him,

Dearest Friend,

 I apologize for my delay in writing to let you know of my safe arrival in Washington City and for what I think you will find to be the stilted tone of this letter but I don’t know how else to begin and I hardly know how to go on. Mrs. Garland has cared for me well and the fever is at bay for now. I could not ask for better care though I might hope for it. I cannot describe how it feels to be here, away from what is dearest to me, but I know that I can, I must bear it and that you should not leave Alexandria. Once, a long time ago now it seems to me, we argued about the War and I told you, how certain I was! that I knew right from wrong and you challenged me with such conviction, such fierce passion for justice that I could not fail to question myself; now I know again what is right, and that is for you to remain the physician par excellence at Mansion House and care for the men fighting to preserve this Union, to free the slaves, and even those who fight so that we may know our Cause is moral. You are capable of doing such good and I would be a hypocrite for criticizing you for your inaction towards the contraband if I allowed you to abandon all those who benefit from your skill, your immense talent and ability, because of my smaller need for your care. You have said it as much yourself when you spoke of your obligation and that has not changed with our distance. I thought I knew sacrifice when I came to Mansion House, and duty, and love and now I find I had known only one aspect, how easily I centered myself in each. I am not so good as you suppose, not half so good as I should like to be, but I am trying to be better, in every way, that when you may come to me I should be the woman you imagine. I would not have you believe any of this means I don’t wish for you and pray for you, for I do; I must tire the Lord himself with my pleas for your safety and your health and some hope of a future reunion, but I cannot help it.

 Before I left, I met a strange woman at Mansion House, a French artist, a vision I might have thought for her unexpected, unanticipated appearance and she helped me when my fever raged—I thanked her by sitting for a sketch at her request, though still she proved a greater consolation to me than I to her, I do believe. I have asked her to give you the picture she drew, an impertinence but one I think you will forgive. It is a serendipitous token for me to leave to you but there is another, one I intended once I knew he would not be dissuaded, a gift of my own design only, a book of poetry that has always been dear to my heart. Not the Tennyson I shared with my father or the Emerson or Thoreau you would have predicted, but a volume of Donne. He is not so widely read but I think if you are inclined, you may find some echo of my voice in his words, though his are far more purely beautiful than any I could say. The book is inscribed for you and it must be yours until some time when you may place it in my hand again or even better, sit beside me to read together while the evening falls around us. That day will come when God wills no matter how I might wish for it to be as soon as tomorrow. My cousin Agnes arrives shortly to escort me the rest of the way home to my sister’s in Boston, the address 9 Exeter Street if you would write to me. Is it the fever which makes me so wild, so bold, or only my own true nature which I should blush to acknowledge? I cannot say but I would ask you to write, however much you might. For I find I miss you so terribly, your wit and your secret gentleness, your passionate heart and your strength, that my soul longs for yours and if we must be parted, as we must be parted, I would find such consolation in whatever correspondence you might send. If I have asked too much, please forgive me and know I keep you in my prayers and beg God to keep you safe.

 Ever yours,

Mary von Olnhausen

 The letter took the better part of an afternoon to compose, but Mary did not regret the time, the fatigue from sitting upright that boded ill for the upcoming train ride to Boston, even the ache in her head from the tears that threatened she would not let fall to perfume it with her grief. Mrs. Garland smiled a little when Mary asked for sealing wax and had provided it with a fresh cup of tea and a remark,

 “You shan’t be able to return to your position as Head Nurse, you understand. Miss Dix has certain…expectations, certain lines she will not allow crossed but I think you have made a good bargain. He did seem to care very much, if you will pardon the observation. Now will you have me read to you while you rest your eyes?”

 Mary nodded. She had written so many words there hardly seemed any left to say but she thought of what might be a comfort as the night fell with Jedediah far away.

 “The book of Ruth. Please.”

[dfroza]

will you stand for True nature?

will you stand for the truth in Love?

and Love is our beautiful Creator, who is God (who is Light)

with a revealing of His True nature as read in the Scriptures and a portion of Today’s reading being the closing of the ancient Letter of Titus:

[He Put Our Lives Together]

Remind the people to respect the government and be law-abiding, always ready to lend a helping hand. No insults, no fights. God’s people should be bighearted and courteous.

It wasn’t so long ago that we ourselves were stupid and stubborn, dupes of sin, ordered every which way by our glands, going around with a chip on our shoulder, hated and hating back. But when God, our kind and loving Savior God, stepped in, he saved us from all that. It was all his doing; we had nothing to do with it. He gave us a good bath, and we came out of it new people, washed inside and out by the Holy Spirit. Our Savior Jesus poured out new life so generously. God’s gift has restored our relationship with him and given us back our lives. And there’s more life to come—an eternity of life! You can count on this.

I want you to put your foot down. Take a firm stand on these matters so that those who have put their trust in God will concentrate on the essentials that are good for everyone. Stay away from mindless, pointless quarreling over genealogies and fine print in the law code. That gets you nowhere. Warn a quarrelsome person once or twice, but then be done with him. It’s obvious that such a person is out of line, rebellious against God. By persisting in divisiveness he cuts himself off.

As soon as I send either Artemas or Tychicus to you, come immediately and meet me in Nicopolis. I’ve decided to spend the winter there. Give Zenas the lawyer and Apollos a hearty send-off. Take good care of them.

Our people have to learn to be diligent in their work so that all necessities are met (especially among the needy) and they don’t end up with nothing to show for their lives.

All here want to be remembered to you. Say hello to our friends in the faith. Grace to all of you.

The Letter of Titus, Chapter 3 (The Message)

and again, mirrored in The Voice:

And remind them of this: respect the rulers and the courts. Obey them. Be ready to do what is good and honorable. Don’t tear down another person with your words. Instead, keep the peace, and be considerate. Be truly humble toward everyone because there was a time when we, too, were foolish, rebellious, and deceived—we were slaves to sensual cravings and pleasures; and we spent our lives being spiteful, envious, hated by many, and hating one another. But then something happened: God our Savior and His overpowering love and kindness for humankind entered our world; He came to save us. It’s not that we earned it by doing good works or righteous deeds; He came because He is merciful. He brought us out of our old ways of living to a new beginning through the washing of regeneration; and He made us completely new through the Holy Spirit, who was poured out in abundance through Jesus the Anointed, our Savior. All of this happened so that through His grace we would be accepted into God’s covenant family and appointed to be His heirs, full of the hope that comes from knowing you have eternal life. This is a faithful statement of what we believe.

Concerning this, I want you to put it out there boldly so that those who believe in God will be constant in doing the right things, which will benefit all of us. Listen, don’t get trapped in brainless debates; avoid competition over family trees or pedigrees; stay away from fights and disagreements over the law. They are a waste of your time. If a person is causing divisions in the community, warn him once; and if necessary, warn him twice. After that, avoid him completely because by then you are sure that you are dealing with a corrupt, sinful person. He is determined to condemn himself.

I am sending either Artemas or Tychicus to you. When one of them arrives, try your best to make your way to me at Nicopolis (I plan to spend the winter there). Do what you can to get Zenas (the lawyer) and Apollos on their way; make sure they have everything they need. Our people must learn to get involved when a need arises, particularly when the need is urgent. Teach them to do what is good so they won’t become unproductive members of the community.

Everyone with me sends his greetings. Greet all our friends in the faith. May grace be with all of you. [Amen.]

The Letter of Titus, Chapter 3 (The Voice)

along with inspiration from Today’s Psalms and Proverbs :

Even if we had forgotten the name of our God

or offered praise to another god,

Would not the True God have known it?

For He can see the hidden places of our hearts.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 44:20-21 (The Voice)

God, you know our every heart secret.

You know we still want you!

The Book of Psalms, Poem 44:21 (The Passion Translation)

[Psalm 65]

For the worship leader. A song of David.

All will stand in awe to praise You.

Praise will sweep through Zion, the Sacred City, O God.

Solemn vows uttered to You will now be performed.

You hear us pray in words and silence;

all humanity comes into Your presence.

Injustice overwhelms me!

But You forgive our sins, restoring as only You can.

You invite us near, drawing us

into Your courts—what an honor and a privilege!

We feast until we’re full on the goodness of Your house,

Your sacred temple made manifest.

You leave us breathless when Your awesome works answer us by putting everything right.

God of our liberation—

You are the hope of all creation, from the far corners of the earth

to distant life-giving oceans.

With immense power, You erected mountains.

Wrapped in strength, You compelled

Choppy seas,

crashing waves,

and crowds of people

To sit in astonished silence.

Those who inhabit the boundaries of the earth are awed by Your signs,

strong and subtle hints of Your indelible presence.

Even the dawn and dusk respond to You with joy.

You spend time on the good earth,

watering and nourishing the networks of the living.

God’s river is full of water!

By preparing the land,

You have provided us grain for nourishment.

You are the gentle equalizer: soaking the furrows,

smoothing soil’s ridges,

Softening sun-baked earth with generous showers,

blessing the fruit of the ground.

You crown the year with a fruitful harvest;

the paths are worn down by carts overflowing with unstoppable growth.

Barren desert pastures yield fruit;

craggy hills are now dressed for celebration.

Meadows are clothed with frolicking flocks of lambs;

valleys are covered with a carpet of autumn-harvest grain;

the land shouts and sings in joyous celebration.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 65 (The Voice)

with 65 being the alphabetic number of the word “music”

to be concluded by ancient wisdom from the book of Proverbs in chapter 3:

My child, if you truly want a long and satisfying life,

never forget the things that I’ve taught you.

Follow closely every truth that I’ve given you.

Then you will have a full, rewarding life.

Hold on to loyal love and don’t let go,

and be faithful to all that you’ve been taught.

Let your life be shaped by integrity,

with truth written upon your heart.

That’s how you will find favor and understanding

with both God and men—

you will gain the reputation of living life well.

[Wisdom’s Guidance]

Trust in the Lord completely,

and do not rely on your own opinions.

With all your heart rely on him to guide you,

and he will lead you in every decision you make.

Become intimate with him in whatever you do,

and he will lead you wherever you go.

Don’t think for a moment that you know it all,

for wisdom comes when you adore him with undivided devotion

and avoid everything that’s wrong.

Then you will find the healing refreshment

your body and spirit long for.

Glorify God with all your wealth,

honoring him with your very best,

with every increase that comes to you.

Then every dimension of your life will overflow with blessings

from an uncontainable source of inner joy!

[Wisdom’s Correction]

My child, when the Lord God speaks to you,

never take his words lightly,

and never be upset when he corrects you.

For the Father’s discipline comes only

from his passionate love and pleasure for you.

Even when it seems like his correction is harsh,

it’s still better than any father on earth gives to his child.

Those who find true wisdom obtain the tools for understanding,

the proper way to live,

for they will have a fountain of blessing pouring into their lives.

To gain the riches of wisdom is far greater

than gaining the wealth of the world.

As wisdom increases, a great treasure is imparted,

greater than many bars of refined gold.

It is a more valuable commodity than gold and gemstones,

for there is nothing you desire that could compare to her.

Wisdom extends to you long life in one hand

and wealth and promotion in the other.

Out of her mouth flows righteousness,

and her words release both law and mercy.

The ways of wisdom are sweet,

always drawing you into the place of wholeness.

Seeking for her brings the discovery of untold blessings,

for she is the healing tree of life to those who taste her fruits.

[Wisdom’s Blueprints]

The Lord laid the earth’s foundations with wisdom’s blueprints.

By his living-understanding all the universe came into being.

By his divine revelation he broke open

the hidden fountains of the deep,

bringing secret springs to the surface

as the mist of the night dripped down from heaven.

[Wisdom, Our Hiding Place]

My child, never drift off course from these two goals for your life:

to walk in wisdom and to discover discernment.

Don’t ever forget how they empower you.

For they strengthen you inside and out

and inspire you to do what’s right;

you will be energized and refreshed by the healing they bring.

They give you living hope to guide you,

and not one of life’s tests will cause you to stumble.

You will sleep like a baby, safe and sound—

your rest will be sweet and secure.

You will not be subject to terror, for it will not terrify you.

Nor will the disrespectful be able to push you aside,

because God is your confidence in times of crisis,

keeping your heart at rest in every situation.

[Wisdom in Relationships]

Why would you withhold payment on your debt

when you have the ability to pay? Just do it!

When your friend comes to ask you for a favor,

why would you say, “Perhaps tomorrow,”

when you have the money right there in your pocket?

Help him today!

Why would you hold a grudge in your heart

toward your neighbor who lives right next door?

And why would you quarrel with those

who have done nothing wrong to you?

Is that a chip on your shoulder?

Don’t act like those bullies or learn their ways.

Every violent thug is despised by the Lord,

but every tender lover finds friendship with God

and will hear his intimate secrets.

The wicked walk under God’s constant curse,

but godly lovers walk under a stream of his blessing,

for they seek to do what is right.

If you walk with the mockers you will learn to mock,

but God’s grace and favor flow to the meek.

Stubborn fools fill their lives with disgrace,

but glory and honor rest upon the wise.

The Book of Proverbs, Chapter 3 (The Passion Translation)

my reading in the Scriptures for August 3, day 44 of Summer and day 215 of the year:

[dfroza]

Today’s reading in the ancient book of Proverbs and Psalms

for Sunday, june 7 of 2020 with Proverbs 7 and Psalm 7 accompanied by Psalm 81 for the 81st day of Spring and Psalm 9 for day 159 of the year

beginning with these lines from Proverbs:

My son, live according to what I am telling you;

guard my instructions as you would a treasure deep within you.

Stay true to my directives, and they will serve you well;

make my teachings the lens through which you see life.

Bind cords around your fingers to remind you of them;

meditate on them, and you’ll engrave them upon your heart.

The Book of Proverbs, Chapter 7:1-3 (The Voice)

[Proverbs 7]

Stick close to my instruction, my son,

and follow all my advice.

If you do what I say you will live well.

Guard your life with my revelation-truth,

for my teaching is as precious as your eyesight.

Treasure my instructions, and cherish them within your heart.

Say to wisdom, “I love you,”

and to understanding, “You’re my sweetheart.

“May the two of you protect me, and may we never be apart!”

For they will keep you from the adulteress,

with her smooth words meant to seduce your heart.

Looking out the window of my house one day

I noticed among the mindless crowd

a simple, naïve young man who was about to go astray.

There he was, walking down the street.

Then he turned the corner,

going on his way as he hurried on to the house of the harlot—

the woman he had planned to meet.

There he was in the twilight as darkness fell,

convinced no one was watching

as he entered the black shadows of hell.

That’s when their rendezvous began.

A woman of the night appeared,

dressed to kill the strength of any man.

She was decked out as a harlot, pursuing her amorous plan.

Her voice was seductive, rebellious, and boisterous

as she wandered far from what’s right.

Her type can be found soliciting on street corners on just about any night.

She wrapped her arms around the senseless young man and held him tight—

she enticed him with kisses that seemed so right.

Then, with insolence, she whispered in his ear,

“Come with me. It’ll be all right.

I’ve got everything we need for a feast.

I’ll cook you a wonderful dinner.

So here I am—I’m all yours!

You’re the very one I’ve looked for,

the one I knew I wanted from the moment I saw you.

That’s why I’ve come out here tonight,

so I could meet a man just like you.

I’ve spread my canopy bed with coverings,

lovely multicolored Egyptian linens spread

and ready for you to lie down on.

I’ve sprinkled the sheets with intoxicating perfume

made from myrrh, aloes, and sweet cinnamon.

Come, let’s get comfortable and take pleasure in each other

and make love all night!

There’s no one home, for my husband’s away on business.

He left home loaded with money to spend, so don’t worry.

He won’t be back until another month ends.”

He was swayed by her sophistication,

enticed by her longing embrace.

She led him down the wayward path right into sin and disgrace.

Quickly he went astray, with no clue

where he was truly headed,

taken like a dumb ox alongside of the butcher.

She was like a venomous snake coiled to strike,

so she set her fangs into him!

He’s like a man about to be executed with an arrow right through his heart—

like a bird that flies into the net,

unaware of what’s about to happen.

So listen to me, you young men.

You’d better take my words seriously!

Control your sexual urges and guard your hearts from lust.

Don’t let your passions get out of hand

and don’t lock your eyes onto a beautiful woman.

Why would you want to even get close

to temptation and seduction, to have an affair with her?

She has pierced the souls of multitudes of men—

many mighty ones have fallen and have been brought down by her.

If you’re looking for the road to hell, just go looking for her house!

The Book of Proverbs, Chapter 7 (The Passion Translation)

[Psalm 7]

A song of David to the Eternal regarding Cush, the Benjaminite.

O Eternal my God, in You I seek refuge.

Save me from those who are chasing me. Rescue me,

Or else they will tear me to pieces as a lion devours his prey;

they will carry me off with no one to snatch me from their jaws.

O Eternal my God, if I have done anything wrong to deserve this,

if there is blood on my hands,

If I have mistreated a friend,

or if I have stolen from an adversary without just cause,

Then let my enemy come after me and catch me,

stomping me into the ground, ending my life,

and grinding my honor into the dirt.

[pause]

Arise, O Eternal One, inflamed by Your anger.

Come and counter the rage of my adversaries;

open Your eyes, my God; hear my plea for justice once and for all.

Let the people gather around You.

Return to Your rightful place above them in the high court.

The Eternal will judge the nations.

Judge me now, Eternal One, according to my virtue and integrity.

Please, bring the evil actions of these wicked, wicked people to an end!

But secure the righteous,

For You, righteous God,

examine our hearts and minds.

God is my defender;

He rescues those who have a pure heart.

God is a just judge;

He passes judgment daily against the person who does evil.

If the wicked do not turn from their evil deeds, God will sharpen His sword;

He will bend His bow, stringing it in readiness.

Yes, He has prepared His deadly weapons

with His arrows flaming hot.

See, my enemies are fertile with evil.

They conceive trouble

and give birth to deception.

They prepare a trap, digging a deep pit,

and fall into the snare they have made.

The trouble they plan will return to punish them,

and their violent acts will come back to haunt them.

As a result, I will thank the Eternal for His justice

and sing praises in honor of the Eternal, Most High.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 7 (The Voice)

and these lines mirrored in The Message:

Stand up, God; pit your holy fury

against my furious enemies.

Wake up, God. My accusers have packed

the courtroom; it’s judgment time.

Take your place on the bench, reach for your gavel,

throw out the false charges against me.

I’m ready, confident in your verdict:

“Innocent.”

Close the book on Evil, God,

but publish your mandate for us.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 7:6-9 (The Message)

[Psalm 81]

For the Feast of Tabernacles

For the Pure and Shining One

Asaph’s poetic song, set to the melody of “For the Feast of Harvest”

Lord, just singing about you makes me strong!

So I’ll keep shouting for joy to Jacob’s God, my champion.

Let the celebration begin!

I will sing with drum accompaniment and with the sweet sound

of the harp and guitar strumming.

Go ahead! Blow the jubilee trumpet to begin the feast!

Blow it before every joyous celebration and festival.

For God has given us these seasons of joy,

days that the God of Jacob decreed for us to celebrate and rejoice.

He has given these feasts to remind us of his triumph over Egypt,

when he went out to wage war against them.

I heard the message in an unknown tongue as he said to me,

“I have removed your backbreaking burdens

and have freed your hands from the hard labor and toil.

You called out to me in your time of trouble and I rescued you.

I came down from the realm of the secret place of thunder,

where mysteries hide.

I came down to save you.

I tested your hearts at the place where there was no water to drink,

the place of your bitter argument with me.”

Pause in his presence

“Listen to me, my dear people.

For I’m warning you, and you’d better listen well!

For I hold something against you.

Don’t ever be guilty of worshiping any other god but me.

I am your only God, the living God.

Wasn’t I the one who broke the strongholds over you

and raised you up out of bondage?

Open your mouth with a mighty decree;

I will fulfill it now, you’ll see!

The words that you speak, so shall it be!

But my people still wouldn’t listen;

my princely people would not yield to me.

So I lifted my grace from off of their lives and I surrendered them

to the stubbornness of their hearts.

For they were living according to their own selfish fantasies.

O that my people would once and for all listen to me

and walk faithfully in my footsteps, following my ways.

Then and only then will I conquer your every foe

and tell every one of them, ‘You must go!’

Those who hate my ways will cringe before me

and their punishment will be eternal.

But I will feed you with my spiritual bread.

You will feast and be satisfied with me,

feeding on my revelation-truth like honey

dripping from the cliffs of the high place.”

The Book of Psalms, Poem 81 (The Passion Translation)

[Psalm 9]

A David Psalm

I’m thanking you, God, from a full heart,

I’m writing the book on your wonders.

I’m whistling, laughing, and jumping for joy;

I’m singing your song, High God.

The day my enemies turned tail and ran,

they stumbled on you and fell on their faces.

You took over and set everything right;

when I needed you, you were there, taking charge.

You blow the whistle on godless nations;

you throw dirty players out of the game,

wipe their names right off the roster.

Enemies disappear from the sidelines,

their reputation trashed,

their names erased from the halls of fame.

God holds the high center,

he sees and sets the world’s mess right.

He decides what is right for us earthlings,

gives people their just deserts.

God’s a safe-house for the battered,

a sanctuary during bad times.

The moment you arrive, you relax;

you’re never sorry you knocked.

Sing your songs to Zion-dwelling God,

tell his stories to everyone you meet:

How he tracks down killers

yet keeps his eye on us,

registers every whimper and moan.

Be kind to me, God;

I’ve been kicked around long enough.

Once you’ve pulled me back

from the gates of death,

I’ll write the book on Hallelujahs;

on the corner of Main and First

I’ll hold a street meeting;

I’ll be the song leader; we’ll fill the air

with salvation songs.

They’re trapped, those godless countries,

in the very snares they set,

Their feet all tangled

in the net they spread.

They have no excuse;

the way God works is well-known.

The cunning machinery made by the wicked

has maimed their own hands.

The wicked bought a one-way

ticket to hell.

No longer will the poor be nameless—

no more humiliation for the humble.

Up, God! Aren’t you fed up with their empty strutting?

Expose these grand pretensions!

Shake them up, God!

Show them how silly they look.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 9 (The Message)