#sitting in the sun laying on the warm concrete in the summer exploring

[orangespottedgiraffe]

Ignore

[iveneverbeenhere]

Nostalgia

Things BTS Boys Remind me of:

Summary: ^ top explains it’s all.

Genre: fluff

Word Count: 0.8K

CW: Mentions of drinking and of being parents (reader is gender neutral), like one sentence mentioning injury in Jungkook’s

AN: I might make this a series cause I have a lot of thoughts. Enjoy 🫡

Jin:

Going on vacation:

Exploring somewhere unfamiliar, feeling the heat blaze down on you as you explore the local areas. Neither of you speaks the language well, but the friendliness shown through native people’s actions are enough to make you feel at ease. Going back to your hotel and drinking pina coladas in your bathing suits. Looking on at the parents and their kids play in the cerulean water. The image starts up conversations of your future together. Eventually, the sun vanishes and you both return to your hotel rooms to prepare for the resort party later.

Yoongi:

Fall:

Sitting outside the steps of your new home while he takes up the leaves that piled up the previous night. It’s too warm for a sweater, but the wind is too strong for you not to insist he wears a scarf. His hair is a jumbled mess, so he wears the old beanie you gave him. Besides, those kids down the block don’t need any more reasons to make fun of him. Said kids catch a glimpse of the mountainous piles he’s made and take the jump. He exasperatedly scolds them while they whine and you snicker.

Hobi:

Summer nights:

It’s too hot to sleep, so you both decided to get some ice cream and enjoy the night. The absence of the sun makes the heat bearable. You two pull up a couple of chairs from storage to sit outside. He decides the sound of screaming kids and parents talking to each other while crickets chirp a homely beat isn’t enough stimulation, so he grabs his phones and starts up his playlist. He slurps his Spider-Man ice cream as he sits next to you in his baggy shorts and slides while the fireflies buzz around you two. You suggest that you should catch a couple and keep them in a jar. Something to do with luck you say. He gives his signature cackles and agrees, but only after he’s finished his ice cream.

Namjoon:

Laying on a hammock while reading:

Spring makes for the perfect scenery. He wakes up that morning feeling refreshed, but lowkey. He grabs himself the book you bought for him recently. He heard you run on about how much you thought he would love it. Something about it exploring the philosophy of how we live our lives. How ego and capitalist greed overshadow our virtues. He steps outside the house, barefoot.You would have nagged him about it had you been awake. However, the decently sized hammock was strung up less than a couple feet away. Besides, the feeling of grass, dandelions, and the warm concrete felt nice. It comforted and grounded him. As he does with most things, he boorish throws himself onto the hammock and starts the first page. The sun blazes down on him, however its effect is lessened by the shade of the trees nearby. He’s sure you’re soon to follow him when you awake. Still, he’s more than happy to wait for you. As he always does.

Jimin:

Afternoon naps:

Nothing eases the soul better than rest. Especially after the tumultuous time you’ve both had. The soft thud the bed makes as you both hit it. The cozy feeling that settles as you nuzzle into it. Even in outside clothes, the homeliness and security still wash over. The guilt free feeling of closing your eyes slowly and falling. Of knowing that even if the time together is short, it’s wonderful.

V:

Chasing after the ice cream truck:

The chaos of clambering limbs as you both rush inside the house. You have to find the money before he leaves. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity! The signature music blares outside while children line up to the truck. The hurries rushes of “Go, go, go, go” that sours you both to fly down the steps. You probably dropped some change in your haste, but that’s a different issue. The contrast of sweat that begins to pool on yours and his submitted skin to the boxy, crescent eye smiles you both share as you finally get to the truck. Victory tastes so sweet.

Jungkook:

Playing as kids:

Roughhousing is a natural part of childhood. Ideally, your parents would have preferred if you never fought, ruined your clothes, or threw mud. However, the freeness that you two felt whenever you wrestled after the rain settled down in the afternoon? The feeling of picking up bugs and pebbles to ambush the other while they were off guard? Nothing compares to that.Expect, maybe the smaller, sweeter moments. Crying after scrapping your knee, so to comfort you, he gives you the popsicle he got from his mom. Your obsession with special rocks that he always remembers when he finds one on his way to your house. The picture worthy shot your moms got of you two laying on the floor in your pjs cuddling after failing to stay awake past your bedtimes. Nothing compares to the simple bliss of that.

[papipopsicle]

HANDMADE HEAVEN PART ONE

Pairing: Steve Harrington X Hargrove!Reader

Summary: In which the new Queen of Hawkins High finds herself falling for the fallen king.

Song: Easier by 5 Seconds of Summer

Warnings: swearing, asshole parental figures

Words: 1.7K

MASTERLIST

feedback is always appreciated

The house itself was fine, not pretty and polished like the one she grew up in, but at the very least she was grateful not to be sleeping in another motel bed filled with broken springs and anonymous stains. Susan greeted her like a good little home maker, tightly waved hair bouncing against her shoulders as she walked down the steps of the porch.

"How was it, sweetie?" The ginger woman waited with pursed lips while her step daughter stood from the vehicle. She really hated that car, it stood out like a sore thumb next to her husband's silver SUV, especially when her brothers parked alongside the two.

"Not the worst." Y/N shrugged. She missed the silent solace already, "Has Max decided which room she wants?"

Susan nodded, leading the blonde into their new home, "She's at the back opposite your father and I. William hasn't arrived yet so you have the choice of the one next to hers or ours."

Without hesitation she chose the one next to Max's. Her father helped unload her heavier furniture from the U-Haul currently fixed to the back of her red muscle car. The room was in the shape on an 'L', mirroring her step sister's. Her small double bed only just managed to fit in the crook, creating a cosy space to drift away in.

Hours of rearranging the room passed before a navy blue Camaro could be heard pulling up onto the curb and a muggy sunset made itself present in her bedroom window. Emptying out her socks into the small drawer of her dresser, Y/N dropped the empty black bin liner behind her and rushed to greet her brother.

"Billy!" She squealed, attacking him with a hug. The two would roughhouse and swear at each other like drunken sailors, but their love for each other would always be the first thing anyone noticed about the twins. He picked her up with ease and spun her around, quickly dropping her to the floor again.

Y/N's twin would sometimes forget the rude masculine persona he put on and actually behaved like himself, but it never lasted long with their father close by.

"See that hunk of crap didn't kill you on the way here then?" Billy joked as they both carried a bed frame into his new room. His distaste for the nineteen-sixty-eight Mustang Cobra was evident whenever it came up in conversation, only due to it being left to her rather than him in their mother's will.

"Not just yet." His sister hummed and the two let out a huff as they dropped the mattress onto the wooden frame. They talked about the bullshit of finishing their senior year at a completely different school and what that we're going to dress up as for Halloween. It was their favourite holiday and this year she planned on being Tom Cruise from Risky Business. Nobody would understand it but it was better than Billy's 'slutty teen boy' costume he wore most days anyway.

"Y/N/N honey, could you come into the lounge!" Susan's sugary tone rang through the house. The twins shared a look that always subconsciously found their faces when she attempted to play doting step mother.

Fucking doormat of a woman.

"Coming." The blonde shut her brothers door on the way out and walking down the hallway into the small living area. By now any remnants of the sun had long hidden away from Hawkins and only warm ceiling lights lit up her face.

Susan appeared from the kitchen door with a tray full of oatmeal cookies, grin etched into her features like puppet strings pulling at her cheeks, "Try one, would you?" She gleamed, pushing the metal tray out for emphasis, "I'd ask your father but he'd just say they were nice, never wants to upset me. He's too good."

Not wanting to answer, Y/N took a small crumbly cookie and bit into it, eyes bugging out at the statement only able to nod in response.

The step mother watched in anticipation, hair bouncing at her shoulders as usual, "So, gorgeous? Be honest with me, how are they?"

"Really good," She didn't like the woman, but couldn't deny her ability to copy a recipe, "I think these may even top the peanut butter ones."

Susan's sterile smile managed to stretch further and Y/N was scared her lips may crack and bleed from the force, "Perfect! We're handing them out to our new neighbours tomorrow. Which reminds me, I need you to get some new trainers for Maxine tomorrow, nothing expensive though, they're just for gym class. She's a four now.

The blonde resisted the urge to roll her eyes, and instead nodded while an idea popped into her head, "I drove past a giant superstore on my way here, I'm sure they're still open I can just go now."

"Are you sure, honey?" Susan sounded concerned, but Neil didn't share the same feelings, "Curfew is eleven until you start school on Monday, same rules apply here."

"I know, Dad." She nodded curtly and turned on her heel, not wasting a moment grabbing her brothers old khaki bomber jacket and her car keys. The front door shut just as quickly as it opened, leaving the small U Haul sitting on the driveway next to Billy's Camaro.

It had been her brother's favourite jacket since he was sixteen, but he'd gained so much muscle his arms couldn't slip into it anymore. Although Y/N was tall for the average girl, the material still managed to shroud her frame.

Y/N felt amazed after managing to get to the store fairly easily, she picked up some plain black pumps and paid for them with cash, pocketing the receipt to make sure Neil would reimburse her. That took less than fifteen minutes. There were still over two hours until she needed to be back at the house and she needed to make the most of any freedom from her father.

She was her mother's daughter and the opposite of Susan Mayfield-Hargrove; if someone showed themselves as a thorn and not the rose they seemed to be, they were a thorn. She could accept it and move on, which is difficult when they own the house she calls home. Her step mother was a fixer, finding wilted petals and taping them up against the thorn to appear more sightly. If Neil was the thorn, Y/N the rose, then Susan was a daisy in a field where she didn’t belong.

The younger Hargrove twin decided to explore her new home, driving around cul-de-sacs and roads which mirrored one another. After a while of aimless driving, Y/N parked up at the side of a quiet road, seeming to back onto a rich neighbourhood. She locked the muscle car, Ellie, and began walking on the edge of the road.

"Stay put, El." She whispered to herself, echoing her mother's voice. Meredith Hargrove always swore her car changed parking spaces whenever they went somewhere together.

Y/N couldn't imagine having so much space, no family was big enough to make use of it all. Her feet brought her into the small forest area, passing a few more eccentric gardens before finding one which intrigued her. The lights were all off, moonlight bouncing off the unmoving water in the centre of the garden.

Swimming had always been something the Hargrove girl not only loved but turned to in uncertainty. Billy would surf alongside her a long time ago, but he hadn't for years now. Her eyes danced around each room, unable to see any kind of life within the mansion. Against Y/N’s better judgement, she left the tall trees and let her toes edge onto someone's private property.

It seems a shame not to.

Fallen leaves stopped crunching under her brown boots as they found concrete slabs. The family must have employed a cleaner and gardener as nothing seemed out of place or dirty. The water was clear and not a single leaf or bug lay on its surface. Crouching down, her fingers drifted along the water, creating a small ripple, confirming her suspicions of how cold it would be.

She didn't care, stripping down into her underwear in the cool autumnal winds, anyone would've thought she was a crazy person. Y/N ignored the small ladder next to her and gracefully dived into the pool, swimming down to the bottom until she needed to come back up for air. The blonde lay on her back, staring up at the stars wondering what her friends were doing on the other side of America. Probably at Sadie's getting high.

Y/N wasn't sure how much time had passed, her fingertips were now wrinkled but it didn't bother her. She was in her element, so much so she didn't register when the kitchen light turned on and alerted the homeowner of someone in their pool.

Steve's body was overcome with terror as he did a double, triple take out of the kitchen window at the figure in his garden. He only wanted some leftover lasagne. Grabbing his nail punctured bat, the home alone teenager unlocked the back door, and against his own better judgement, creeped towards the intruder.

As he came closer, he was thankful to find a girl than a demogorgan, a girl he certainly didn't recognise. Her blonde hair lay on top of the water like a halo as she floated in her own world.

"Hello?" He questioned, bat still firmly in hand, "Why the fuck are you naked in my pool?"

Y/N left her mini trance, flailing in the water as her eyes found a teenage boy wielding an odd weapon, only a scream leaving her lips in response.

part two?

want to be tagged? just send in an ask!

[notveryglittery]

kiss me

summary: a series of kisses.  words: 1,820 / ship: romantic royality notes: @hawthornshadow​ said “kiss me” by sixpence none the richer and royality and this happened? i wrote it on discord so it’s kinda plotless and messy but it’s cute, imo!! shout out to @sleepless-in-starbucks​ for encouraging me along the way <3 

please listen to “kiss me” while you read!!  read on ao3 | @fandersfic-royality 

— — — — — — — — —

If this godforsaken town has one thing going for it, it’s Patton Hart. He is sweet, and handsome, and mesmerizing. From the light floppy sun hats to the pastel spaghetti strap dresses; from his strawberry blond curls to the sharp emerald green of his eyes; from the sure swift grace he moves with and the mischievous smile he hides behind his hand. There is confidence in Patton that makes Roman wonder if he really isn’t from the city, if he truly has been born and raised out here in wheat fields and sunflower plains. 

They meet when Roman is sixteen. He and his mother have only just moved to Iowa and don't get him wrong, he'd go to the ends of the Earth for his mom, but did her job really have to transfer her to the middle of nowhere? Roman isn’t sure this tiny little town even knows what Starbucks was. There’s one grocery store, one gas station, a library that also doubles as the cinema which makes absolutely no sense, and an ice cream parlor. They have an ice cream parlor but they don’t have stable WiFi and what was the gosh darn ding dang point of a cute, aesthetic ice cream parlor if he can’t post on Instagram about it? 

Roman had been hoping it'd take some time to explore his new home, to get to know the lay of the land, but it really only takes him a day and a half, and that is only because they arrived late in the evening. It isn’t until after Roman has the streets memorized (which isn’t difficult given that there are about nine of them) that he stops in at Scoops 'n Smiles. He thinks it a stupid name but then again, most of this town is still stupid to him, because he’s still bitter about living in it. 

It all gets a whole less stupid when a greeting rings out to him as he steps inside.

*

Roman might not know anything about the cute employee behind the counter but the cute employee behind the counter certainly knows plenty about Roman. It is such a small town, after all, and word spreads fast. He’s a city boy, out here with his mama, and so far he’s been nothing but polite, if not a little grumpy. Neither of them would admit it until they’d been engaged for five months, eight days, and thirteen hours - but the love at first sight is entirely mutual. 

Roman approaches the counter with a spring in his step and stars in his eyes. Patton had smiled coyly at him. 

“Hiya, welcome to Scoops ’n Smiles,” Patton would say sweetly. 

Roman would choke (“your accent,” he’d explain later, “god, you were so cute.”) and Patton would find his stammering endearing. They’re only sixteen but Patton has never been so sure of something in his life. He’d marry this boy, if the fates would allow it. 

Maybe Patton hands Roman a napkin with his ice cream, despite there being a dispenser at the counter beside the spoons. Maybe it has Patton’s phone number written on it. Maybe Patton winks at Roman as he leaves, gripping his cone so tightly it is close to crumbling. Maybe Patton screams into a dish towel the moment the parlor is empty again.

*

Their first date is, not to put it loosely, magical. Roman learns quickly that anything is magical where Patton was involved. They go out to the lake. It’s a beautiful day, sunny and bright and warm. Patton is wearing a sundress in a shade of blue that matches the sky. Roman wears the wrong pair of shoes and they are caked in mud by the end of the day, but that’s alright. 

The stars are sparkling brighter than Roman has ever seen, laying in the bed of Patton’s truck beside the barley fields and green pastures. Lightning bugs flit in and out of view, the air is cool on his skin, and Patton is telling him all about the constellations.

“How d’you know so much?” Roman asks. 

“My cousin taught me when he visited last year,” Patton answers, turning to look at Roman, and smiling, smiling so sparkling and pretty that the stars no longer compare. “I’m pretty sure he used it to do the same thing I’m doing.” 

“And what’s that?” 

“Trying to impress a boy he liked.” 

Patton tastes like strawberry ice cream and vanilla chapstick. Roman doesn’t see it, given he’s so very focused on kissing Patton (kissing Patton!), but a shooting star streaks across the sky, and it really all might as well be made for movies.

*

Let it be known that Patton is never one to be outdone. He throws himself into his projects and his friendships and his work. His pa tells him to be careful about giving and giving and giving, that he has to slow down sometimes. Patton thinks that silly; how could he ever do that when he has so much love and energy bottled up inside, so much that he feels like he might burst with it? Roman matches him here and it is exhilarating. City boy is outgoing and adventurous and go go go. It feels so good to finally have someone that can keep up. 

What could possibly go wrong when Patton has someone as wonderful and sincere and bright as Roman at his side? 

Winter is approaching and so the town is celebrating its autumn harvest. They do this at the end of every season and it’s Roman's first time attending one. There are games and prizes, treats and cider, and when the cleared space for a dance floor is glowing with moonlight, and the band is at full swing, Roman takes Patton by the hands, swinging and spinning him around. 

By the end of the night, the fireflies dancing and the silver moon sparkling, Roman will press a kiss to Patton's lips and murmur breathlessly "I love you." 

Never one to be outdone, Patton will return it, and he'll continue with hushed compliments, and light pecks anywhere he can reach, and by the end, Roman will be as red as the changing leaves.

*

If Roman had known he'd only have two years, he'd have done more with his time. He'd have confessed his love sooner, he'd have made sure to take more photos, he'd have done better.  

It’s at the broken treehouse and working tire swing that they've taken to spending their free mornings at. Patton is wearing his favorite sun hat, the one with the flowers. Roman’s pushing him on the swing, soaking in the sound of his laughter and the warm unfiltered sunlight. He doesn’t want to go. 

They sit down for a picnic, looking at an old map Patton's dad had given them, one marked with trails and clearings and lakes. The idea of spending his summer with Patton exploring and hiking sounds so much better than going back to concrete skyscrapers and smog. He doesn’t want to go.  

"I have to go." 

Patton looks at him curiously. 

"Home, I mean."

"You are home," Patton assures him. 

"I -" and it's all Roman can say before tears are stinging at the corners of his eyes. 

Patton's expression crumbles and he hurries to pull Roman into his arms, shushing him, and pressing kisses to the top of his head, and running a hand up and down his back. Somehow, it doesn’t help.

*

The following three years are dreadful. They are boring and slow and lonely and Patton finally understands what his pa meant by taking it easy. He can’t work at Smiles ’n Scoops without remembering this is where he met the love of his life, he can’t attend harvest festivals without recalling the way Roman had blushed so prettily after their first I love you, he can’t look at the broken treehouse in the park without remembering the way it had felt to hold a crying, trembling Roman in his arms. 

Sure, there are letters and texts and video calls. They don’t compare to the way Roman’s hand fits perfectly in his. The freckles Roman had earned from all his time in the sun fade the longer he is back in the city. His hair is darker and there are bags under his eyes and Patton wonders if it is because it’s so noisy there; he can hear it through the phone sometimes. 

Roman does get better, over time. He gets used to the noise and the monotone colors and it is almost like he was never in Iowa to begin with. That doesn’t mean anything, though, because three years and eight months and two weeks later, he’s packed everything he owns, and he moves back home. 

Home is where the heart is after all. More accurately, home is where the Hart is. 

Maybe he keeps it a secret. Maybe he meets up with Patton's father and asks for his blessing. Maybe the entire town is on the same page for once and doesn’t spread the word. Maybe Patton doesn’t see Roman sneaking up on him at the autumn harvest festival. 

Maybe when Patton turns around, Roman is behind him on one knee. Maybe when they kiss this time, it is with shaking hands and tears of joy and a ring that sparkles like the silver moon.

*

Five months, eight days, and thirteen hours into being engaged and Roman is still as hopelessly smitten as he has been since day one. He’s helping Patton to figure out his new phone. Somehow, Patton’s had the same iPhone 5 for over seven years, and it was still in perfect working condition. There wasn’t a scratch or dent on it, not once had it needed to be factory reset. When Roman asks how Patton does it (because Roman has gone through at least four phones), Patton says sweetly, like the way he does the day they met: 

“I take care of the things I love.” 

And it should just be something Patton says but nothing Patton ever says is just something and someone might as well be crowing “one hit KO” because Roman is down for the count. 

“I loved you at first sight,” Patton sighs, as if Roman isn’t already dead. “I said to the fates, I’m going to marry that boy.” 

Roman falls over, swooning onto Patton’s lap. The harvest festivals see them on the moonlit dance floor less often, too busy staying curled up beside each other. “Dearheart, please have mercy.” 

Patton grins mischievously and leans over to press a kiss to Roman's lips. There are fireflies dancing around him and his strawberry blond curls look like they're glowing. "Now why ever would I do that?" 

And if Roman confesses beneath the milky twilight to Patton, too, that he'd fallen in love at first sight, hoping to fluster his fiancé (his fiancé!) in return, well... Patton is never one to be outdone.

[apartment-mbti]

How Talking to the MBTI Types Feels Like

ESTJ: You’re sitting in a train, staring out the window. The air in the cabin is cool and smells a bit like lavender. You pull your coat tighter around you, and it keeps you warm despite the chill. The landscape goes on for miles out the window, with the sunlight highlighting fields of flowers, framed by mountains far in the distance. Sunflowers close to the window blur together as the train speeds by. The friction between the wheels of the train and the rails is almost nonexistent, and it barely feels like you’re moving. You sit there for hours as you watch the landscape fly by.

ESTP: Car after car zip past you, scaring leaves into the air. Dark clouds cover the sun and provide no counter to the cold of the wind. Your legs are folded in front of you, decorated with water droplets from the rain that has been coming and going for the last hour. Neon signs of the stores across the street glow curiously at you. People pass you and pay you no mind. Your mind is clear.

ESFJ: The air smells like saltwater and warm pretzels, the latter smell wafting down from the boardwalk. Sunlight warms your shoulders and your back. Waves crash against your ankles, stirring up sand below your feet. The water is as clear as the air, and you can see your feet slowly sink into the ever-moving sand. Small white shells catch on your skin and the sand below, going nowhere.

ESFP: For a moment the trees flare passionately, briefly illuminated by the rose-colored firework bursting above. You lay on your back with the heavens above, hair and fingers intertwined with the blades of grass below. As more flares take to the sky, the night is filled with loud bangs echoing one right after the other. The ember sparks blaze and flicker out as though they’re sinking into an endless pool of ink. Your hands clutch the ground in the overwhelming amazement at the spectacle before you.

ENTJ: The sound of raindrops hitting your umbrella seems to echo, surrounding you with the noise. It blends in with the indescribable smell of rain, and the serenity of the battered sky. People on the streets impatiently hurry by you in an effort to stay as dry as possible. Your boots move you along with the crowd, ignoring the puddles and small rivers running on the roads and sidewalk.

ENTP: Sounds of the busy street below carry up to the rooftop where you stand, unmoving. Wind explores your hair and up your sleeves. You trace your fingers along the concrete barrier between you and the world. Buildings on every side of you tower over your frame, casting long shadows on the city below. Fire escapes and graffiti climb them like vines. Down below, people and cars weave in and out of each other, just trying to get where they’re going.

ENFJ: Perfectly trimmed orange trees socialize in rows stretching as far as the eye can see. The sounds of carefree children dancing in the orchard are intertwined with the persistent roar of rustling leaves. The sun smiles over the scene, causing the cool drink in your hand to condensate and drip over your now-chilly fingers. Your arms rest on the picnic table you’re seated at with a few other people, all of whom are smiling and untroubled.

ENFP: The car of the ferris wheel gently carries you as you stare over the side. Lights of the ride and the surrounding buildings shine proudly all around you, conversing with the stars gathered curiously above you. As you inhale the unchecked windy air you can almost feel yourself waking up and your mind clearing. You lean over the rail and see people wandering below you, fish in a sea of smoky darkness and city lights.  

ISTJ: The bark digs unevenly into your back and your legs as you sit in the uppermost branches of the tree. The sky is within your grasp. Leaves quiver as wind brushes past them, enticing a few to explore the heavens with it. Your eyes wander across the landscape at the near-identical trees all gathered together just for you. The scent of pine and fresh air helps you clear your head and forget about time.

ISTP: The screeches of the subway car are barely audible over the music blasting from your earbuds. Your body sways as the car slows to a stop, opening its doors to the station. Your hand tightens on the cold metal bar keeping you standing. You absentmindedly watch the people moving in and out of the doors. They’re the only dynamic thing about the car, which has had the same hard seats and crackling speakers for as long as you could remember. You brace yourself as the car closes its doors and rumbles away from the station, taking you and the others for the ride.

ISFJ: You absentmindedly stir your drink in front of you with your straw, and listen to the ice move and clink against the glass. The bell by the front door of the cafe jingles as people walk in and out as they please, bringing the heat of the summer day with them. The sun shining on your shoulders through the window is the only thing warmer than the scent of pastries wafting over to you from the display.

ISFP: The sea happily rocks the boat back and forth, eager to make you smile. You squeal with glee as water droplets fly up to meet you. The bright pattern on the sail stands proudly, supported by the wind. Light dances across the waves and onto the glossy white hull beneath you. You can hear the soft squeaks of dolphins starboard, curious and energetic. Boredom is as absent here as loneliness is.

INTJ: Lights glow warmly from inside the building across the street, illuminating the snowflakes lazily drifting to the ground. You pull your legs to your chest, covering them in blanket. You’re leaning close enough to the window that your face can feel the chill seeping through the glass. Familiar music plays from a speaker on the desk behind you, and you can sing all of the words. A mug of hot chocolate sits on the table beside you, the steam making patterns in the air before disappearing into nothingness.

INTP: The consistent sound of raindrops pelting the roof of the greenhouse echoes around the room. They seem to come from nowhere, materializing out of the inky black sky. An abundance of plants and flowers sit scattered around on tables and a few are suspended from the ceiling, swaying with the rainfall. You sit cross-legged on one of the tables, careful not to disturb any of the plants. You absentmindedly play with a leaf that had fallen on the ground, lost in thought.

INFJ: You dip your fingers into the cool, clear water beneath you. Across the lake, the sun is slowly approaching the horizon, causing the sky to twist into shades of orange, pink, and purple. Water laps at the peeling dock you’re resting on, the only source of sound for miles. The dock rocks up and down with it. Boats pace in the distance, admiring the sunset with you. You’re glad for your sweater, as warm to the touch as the sun is to the eye. As the sun inches closer, you look up expectantly; stars are coming.

INFP: The most obvious thing about the night is the silence. It’s as if you’re the only human for miles. Lightning bugs glow and dim, bringing warm patches of light to the rough curves of the tree’s roots and trunk. Its limbs, heavy with leaves, reach to the sky, cradling the constellations above. Blades of grass sway with the wind. The occasional leaf catches your eye for a second as it sails past, into the night. You feel as light as air as you exist here, far away from your problems.

[katherinehorn]

The Old Harbour

I contemplated just posting this essay without context, but it just didn't feel right. I wrote this two weeks ago and although it was a creative writing assignment for my English Literature course, it meant a lot more to me than that. The task was to write roughly 2000 words on a specific place or hour of the day or night. We were instructed to create a story by showing the reader our world rather than simply telling them about it. I think I really needed to write about how I was feeling in constructive way and this assignment definitely gave me the space to do that. But anyway, here it is:

The Old Harbour

I hate Gordon's Bay, I always have. Yes, the harbour may have a stunning view of the sea and it may lead to one of the most beautiful coastal drives in the world. But the town itself has very little aesthetic appeal. The houses are all built with strange, flat iron roofs to withstand the perpetual winds and the architecture looks as though it were designed by an unimaginative twelve year old boy. Most of the shopping centres are run down and have an appearance similar to that of a kitchen floor that had never been scrubbed clean. Even the roads take on a kind of dustiness that only just misses the notion of a charming dirt road.

The civilians here are no beauties either. The town's eclectic mix of people might seem quirky to someone else, but I have found no love for the conservative, bored or sheltered people that roam through the area. For starters, there always seemed to be too much drama over nothing. I frequently heard stories of people having children too young, or teenagers trying to run away from home, or people getting into toxic and violent relationships. Being in Gordon’s Bay was like being in a cliché soapie such as7de Laan. The adults I have met here are the kind of people who read everything in Huis Genoot, obtained all their political views from Facebook posts and lived for Saturday braais and impractical manicures. The teenagers, on the other hand, either have a nauseating resemblance to their parents or a rebellious boredom that usually lead to an interest in hard drugs that I could never quite relate to. I will admit I do not live here and I am sure there are many people who do not fall into these stereotypes. But you see, I have only ever met five people from Gordon's Bay that I actively like.

My dislike for the town, I suppose, stems from the fact that I have never met anyone who lives there, who isn’t unhappy.

However, at the same time I am deeply fascinated by this town. I love hearing stories about the group of kids who used to climb underneath the restaurants in Harbour Island to break into the hotel and about how on one occasion they were caught in the swimming pool and chased all the way to the closest suburb. Or about the woman who lived near the old harbour who used to burn herbs and perform tarot card readings. Or even the sad stories about the woman who had been beaten by her husband and left bleeding on the side of the main road where she was ignored by all passersby with the exception of two teenage boys.

The saving grace of Gordon's Bay is its beachfront. When walking along it I felt like a child, excited by each new thing and constantly finding a fresh thrill whenever I stepped inside Aladdin’s Cave or climbed down Bikini Beach wall to reach the tidal pool. The coastline was an adventure of warm water bottles, crisps and wind that smothers your face like a blind person feeling out the shape of your nose. It was a freedom that skipped over the rock pools until the coastline faded into raging waters beneath Faure Marine Drive. It was kissing a curly haired boy with a mouth dried from the sun and the salt. I spent many summer days jumping from those rocks and winding through crowds of every type of person.

Now, looking back, I wonder if I loved those days so much because of the great love I had for that curly haired boy.

My most treasured memory of the town, however, took place long after the warmth of  December had dwindled away. It was the 16th of June and it had been a lazy day of unwinding at the end of the semester in front of a TV screen while my miniature schnauzer lay stretched out beside me. I was restless. I needed company and had driven for half an hour to obtain it.

My best friend lived in a glass house that lay in the very centre of Gordon's Bay. He was my only connection to the town, without him I would never have been there in June. In fact I would only have visited the town once, when I slept over at friend in 2016.

When the lights went off  that day I had been sitting on his bed fiddling with his hair and trying desperately to convince him that he'd done enough studying for the day. And although I had not yet convinced him, it seemed I had convinced the universe. The power outage was a gift that nudged us to return to our coastline that I longed for so earnestly.

We decided to join our friends at the pub on Beach Road and so, with a rustle of keys and scarves, we jumped into his old Hyundai Getz and it wheezed us down the mountainside. As we turned into the usually bustling Sir Lowry Lane, a cold darkness greeted us. Much like the rest of the town, it was a street I never normally felt comfortable in. But the new darkness of the town comforted me. The sharp architecture retreated into the gloom and the noises that so often overwhelmed me scurried back to their homes. I felt my worries cease their bubbling and nestle themselves at the bottom of my stomach as I nestled into the car chair.

We stared at the pub for at least fifteen minutes when we arrived, neither one of us talking. The sign that usually flashed the words "The Dock" hung damply and barely noticeable above the small glass panes that hid the interior. We could see the dim lights of candles and cellphones dancing across the glass and hear the laughter that trickled out onto the street. With the usual blare of karaoke night missing, an eeriness trapped us inside the parking lot. It was as though we were seeing the town for the first time, as though the darkness were unveiling all the complexities that every day life glossed over. We had no wish to explore it.

Thankfully the coastline had not lost its familiarity and thus we chose to wonder down to the sand and leave the tired pub behind us. We skirted around the sea, playing between the lines the tide created as it swept in and out. But still the distractions of the world seemed too close to us and we slid back into the car and meandered further up beach road.

We parked outside the navy base and skipped down to the old harbour. Despite its strange comfort I still felt scared in the dark, there were too many shadows lurking behind empty cars and fences. So I clung to my guide, for he knew the area like the back of his hand. I trusted him wholeheartedly, for better or for worse.

He lead me round the back of the yacht club and hid me in his shadow when we noticed how it stood open. There were voices inside, Afrikaans ones, and they echoed out indistinguishably to my ears. I heard someone flipping switches irritably. We pressed on.

On the other side of the building we reached a large iron gate  that was chained loosely shut. I'd never seen it before and was so irritated with its sudden appearance that I stepped out from my hiding place. They had fenced off the pier for the construction of the new desalination plant. I thought about how I had crawled through one of the construction pipes in January and about how peculiar the world had seemed inside there. The wind had funnelled so strangely through the pipe that I had thought I was going to cry at the other-worldly sound it created. It was what I'd imagined it would be like to be trapped in a void and I was terrified.

I shook the memory off and looked to my guide for a plan of action. He chuckled quietly and slid the gate open wide enough for us to sneak through. It was like the uncovering of Narnia in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.

We giggled as we raced the wind across the concrete, leaping over pipes and twirling around abandoned equipment. For a while we explored the narrow landscape, crawling in between the nesting dolosse and investigating the way that the moonlight glittered over the yachts. I don't remember us talking during this time, although I'm sure we did. We always do. But that night I felt particularly connected to him in our near silence. It felt good to have someone I could be quiet around; someone with whom I could share the world but still experience it separately. I was suddenly glad for the gate; it had kept the rest of the world out.

Eventually we reached the lighthouse at the tip of the pier. It was darkest and windiest here. Not even the brightest car light could reach us. I stood silently at the edge of it, my feet slipping across the damp moss in slow motion. I watched the way the sea tumbled and rolled against the harbour and traced the path that the moon illuminated across it. I marvelled at the black and silver liquid and thought about how never-ending it was. I felt rooted to the earth in a way that I had never felt before. It was as though the slime had grown through my feet and torn out my soul so that it could be buried beneath the bellowing of the tide. Not even the winds could move me.

Even in remembering that moment it feels as though I am still staring at that water, as though I had never stopped and would never be able surrender that feeling of empty peace. But the truth is I did stop staring, I had turned around in search of the boy I love. But as I did I realised how a part of the landscape he was, he sunk into it, tumbled beneath the waves and burst into air like the chill that flew through my hair. His own wild curls echoed the endless movement of the coastline, the dryness of its summer and the uncertainty of its adventures. He could never be separated from that place; it would follow him wherever he went.

As we walked back to the car, the lights switched on and the humming of the world began again. I knew that I was slowly losing a dream that I would never be able to return to. But still, I climbed back into the car and drove towards the inevitable future. That choice will always be a mistake, for now Gordon's Bay will remain an impossible past that I will never reach and never fail to love.

✬✮✭

[picturesoundandwords]

Memory

Despite my disdain for that threadbare rug, I’d dragged the thing with me to the last three flats. Its tattered corners and frayed edges were scars from the various journeys in vans and fights up flights of concrete stars. As my head rested against its constellations of stubborn dust; my hand, ever cautious of spiders, ventured under the bed. Old VHS tapes watched countless times with Mum. A box of letters, some the artefacts of Grandad’s handwriting, others carrying the faintest ghost of a tantalising perfume. Photo albums in ancient carrier bags, and mountains of books I’d explored over the years. As I sifted through the poorly organised archives, apparitions of years past presented themselves; not pausing to consider my consent. Childhood Christmases, sunburn in Southend, eyes stinging from Jonathan’s teasing, and the taste of a tea dunked madeleine. My wary hand stumbled across a cold metal handle. I pulled a well-worn case into daylight, its hinges and latches speckled with rust. The thin black fabric torn at the edges gave a glimpse of the light brown wood underneath. A soft chuckle escaped as an old inside joke in marker pen on silver duct tape fell under my eyes. I wondered if that joke lay dormant in anyone else’s mind. After wiping away a veneer of dust, I lifted the case onto my bed.

My thumbs briefly wrestled with the stiff latches before they sprung back, and I opened the case. I was greeted by deep amber tones of varnished maple, evoking a glorious sunset, more brilliant than I had remembered. I stood, quietly admiring the gentle curves of a body I once knew intimately. A nervous excitement welled within me. I was suddenly ambushed by the recollection of a warm summer evening, tentatively reaching for a hand I longed to touch; I could see the lightning bugs dancing. With the same care you might afford a pressed flower, I lifted my bass guitar from its battered cocoon. As the instrument rested in my lap, its once familiar weight brought forth yet another mental slideshow; images of lying in a darkened room, a blonde head resting gently on my chest. Our two bodies fit together like halves of a whole; my fingers found the strings, and I began to play. My lumbering digits explored the fretboard, slowly recalling scales, rediscovering their poise. In my mind I traversed a familiar hallway, opening a door on my teenage self, sitting opposite Dave. I watched myself listening intently as the towering idol from my youth critiqued my technique. The last I’d heard; Dave’s wife was pregnant. That bump would be in school uniform by now. It was Josh who’d told me about the pregnancy. I missed playing gigs in those old pubs with Josh. Collecting tips, old pound coins in a pint glass; when we were too young to drink, but old enough to try our luck. Band practices in the shed in sub-zero winters; our burning determination to surpass our heroes was just enough to keep us from giving in to the demands of our frozen fingers, screaming out to hold warm cups of tea. Hot summer nights. Long noisy walks to house parties. Up until sunrise, heavy limbs and tired eyes, tirelessly crafting the next number one. Fights over girls and who was the world’s best drummer. As if possessed, my hands began playing one of our old compositions. My mouth, agape from surprise that I remembered the parts, began softly, somewhat shakily, singing the melody. With increasing clarity, Josh joined in, harmonising and strumming the chords; his bright red guitar in my peripheral vision. On my shoulders rested the phantom of a meticulously straightened mane, dyed as black as those ridiculous jeans that would cut off the circulation. I closed my eyes for fear my senses would shatter this illusion. A discomfort developed in my stomach, as though I’d swallowed fistfuls of lead. Perhaps my body was telling me that I shouldn’t sell this bass. My hands rested, motionless, the instrument in their loose grasp. The silence came into focus. Specks of dust in their hundreds of thousands floated aimlessly through sunbeams and shadows, as the faint hum of rush hour traffic grew just about audible. I thought about practicing, starting a band. I could call Josh, maybe he remembered the old songs too. The light in the room began to face. The sun was setting. Josh wasn’t that 16-year-old anymore; and neither was I. I hadn’t seen him in eight or nine years. As adults we were strangers. I sat, contemplating. Solemnly, I mourned my teenage dreams of stardom; then, with the difficulty of swallowing powdered cinnamon, pushed schemes of musical pursuits to the back of my mind. I decided I would call him. We could grab a beer and have a catch up. Maybe he remembered those old inside jokes; but I’d leave my desires to start a band unspoken. As I gently placed my old friend in its case, I considered what my teenage self would think of me now.

[bethany69esda]

Tea with grandmother

In which i explore my thoughts through a story about a girl, her grandmother, and being a werewolf in college.

It is getting dark when you step outside, this Friday evening. You glance to see if you can find any stars in the sky, but the city lights block them all out, and the sun’s light still lingers. The edges of your vision glow a dull yellow, a combination of all the wavelengths weaving their way through windows, buildings, and cars. You take a glance back where you left, your dorm looks lifeless from the outside. Most of the blinds are drawn shut, and those that are open rarely have their light on. It is much the same inside, fluorescent hallways and closed doors. You return the focus to your task and cross the pedestrian bridge to get to the campus proper.

You have a meeting to attend.

The campus is pleasant, and the smell of orange blossoms and flowers fill the air. You aren’t sure what flowers create the smell, but it is fresh, and the desert air warms your skin. You take your time, strolling the palm-lined sidewalk. You are in no rush, and neither are they. As you head towards your destination, you come across your favorite spot. An isolated patch of land, with a stone fountain the birds use to bathe themselves. You stop to sit, sipping on your tea and listening to the gurgling. As you sit, you see a cat slip past the grate behind the bench where the bougainvillea grows. The cat winds through the thorny bush, dislodging a flowers. It pauses as it passes you, and for a moment you swear it nods at you. Either way, you nod back.

The sky is fully dark now, all traces of sunset have left, and darkness has settled. You get up from the bench, leaving a small piece of a pastry bought at Starbucks behind.  You say nothing, but the wind almost seems to whisper through the trees. You continue forwards, passing the orange streetlamps and tired students. It isn’t long before you reach the Union. Someone is playing guitar while a few students ignore them while doing homework by the neon glow of the pillars holding up the awning. You stop to listen, before continuing on your journey.

Now there is no one where you are, and empty avenue, the distant din of guitar and the glow of the lights behind you. You eventually reach the bus stop.  You cross the street to the amphitheater, a huge monument to an alumni long-dead who opposed the building as ‘wasteful’. They weren’t wrong. It is a veritable colosseum—in design anyways. The hallways have fine red carpeting, and original art on the walls. The stage itself is even worse. Plush velvet seats, engraved brass railings, adjustable LED’s on the floor to see the stage, and the chandelier. How gorgeous, all gold plating and fine crystals—not glass like most others—with electric lights placed to cast light throughout them. The worst part is no student can ever afford to attend a play there—not even the drama department preforms here. Only the rich and wealthy can mingle here.

But you did not come to attend a show. Not in your worn out jeans and converse, not with a t-shirt so badly faded you can no longer see the logo. No.

You walk behind the theatre. There are multiple lawns around it to keep it nice. Across the tiny road circling it, there is a denser collection of trees, bushes, and plants. They do it to hide the unsightly maintenance center where crews can monitor the water flow and take care of any electrical problems that the stage crew can’t. It also serves as an entrance to both the sewers and the underground tunnels throughout campus. You’ve only seen the doors once, a great black door in the lab basement you work at. The next day, yellow caution tape blocked it off. A week later it was bricked up, a stark contrast to the old concrete surrounding it.

You descend the slope to the maintenance outcropping. Next to the gate, a cat lay sleeping. You leave a piece of your pastry and climb the gate. Now inside, you hear the gurgling of flowing water echoing up the shaft. You go around the side, and before you is an old wooden door, worn sunlight and wind, faintly smelling of salt. You take the old skeleton key out of your pocket. The iron is warm from proximity to your body. You knock, and unlock the door.

Inside is a shack, barely holding together. The wood is bleached and warped by the constant spray, and the sun leaks in throughout the slats. In the corner by the window is an old woman. “I brought this for you grandmother” you say, handing over a different pastry. “Would you like me to make you a fresh cup of tea today?” “Thank you dear, the Calendula if you please. My arthritis is flaring up again” “Of course grandmother”. You heat the water on the small camping stove you keep here. The propane never seems to run out, good for you since it is so expensive to buy. You grab a handful of the flowers and place them in the kettle after the water heats. You let it steep in comfortable silence, the sound of waves and gulls fills your ears. You strain the tea through cheesecloth into a nice china teacup, gold rimmed with roses on the side. You bring the teacup with the matching saucer over to the woman, and sit yourself down next to her, bringing out your own tea.

“How are you doing grandmother?”

“Well enough I suppose, the pain flares up and then I can’t finish my embroidery. Those days have been flaring up quite a bit recently. On those days I sit and watch the kids play on the beach, or I listen to one of those audiobooks you set up for me. But enough about me, I’m old. Older than I should be I tell you. Wat about you? How are your studies? Last week you mentioned that boy you went out with, how did it end?

You smile wryly “About as well as I hoped. The boy lacked for conversation, and could only talk about the sport he plays. Nice enough young man, but dreadfully boring. My studies are going….I’m passing all my classes at least.”

The woman nods sagely “So many more these days don’t know how to have a conversation anymore. Why, you’re the only one I talk to. Oh, don’t give me that look. My neighbors are only concerned with the new shopping malls and all the new tech, and their kids only want to swim and surf. That’s just as good, the only thing that matters in school is if you learn—not the grade you get.”

“I don’t blame them. Anything to distract from the tedium in life, right grandmother? We all need to get lost, else we might begin to see the world around us.”

“You’ve always had a penchant for cynicism, but you aren’t wrong. In my days, it was still shopping and technology we lost ourselves in. For good reason too, with so much bad happening, it’s hard to deal with it. What’s really on your mind?”

You frown, she always sees through you, blind as a bat she may be. “You know me so well grandmother. It’s not just the moon that brings me here, but you. I’ve been thinking—“

“Well there’s your problem” You both chuckle, and you continue, your thoughts tumbling out of your mouth, the floodgates removed.

“And I’m not sure I can keep doing this. All this studying, the late nights in the lab, the courses. It starting to get to be too much. Between my family and my school, it feels like I’m always dealing with some sort of crisis. My sister’s depression isn’t getting any better, and I feel so helpless, she won’t take advice from anyone and is dead-set on burning her bridges. I still love her and care for her, but I can’t move her in with me, I can’t make it all better. I’m not sure if this is even the right degree for me, but science is all I know. And there’s no jobs with this degree, only teaching and research. I’m not sure where I want to go anymore. I guess just away from it all”

Grandmother was silent for a while, most of the time she just listens to you until the day comes where you have to leave. “My dear, you know the rules. I cannot tell you what happens that leads us here. I cannot say what will happen, because then it won’t. It’s very clear there. But I can say this: It will be ok. You will fail, over and over and over, but you will pick yourself back up, every time. You can’t cure this disease for your sister, it lies in her mind, her body, her life. You are doing what you can for you. We both know you weren’t the best in your youth, but you’ve so much progress with her since then. Just support her for now, love her unconditionally and don’t condone her self-destructive habit. A bad habit to manage the pain now only causes future pain, and she knows this. She will come to this realization on her own.” Grandmother pauses, sipping her tea and staring out the window.

“Science isn’t all you’ve known. Don’t lie to me. It may feel that way, but underneath that skin, you’re a wolf. It runs in your blood. You’ve known the rush of performance, of praise on a poem, of art made late in the night. You are a jack of all trades, a trickster, a politician, and a therapist. Anything you want to be, you can. Even an accountant” You both make a face of distaste, you hate dealing with numbers and an office job sounds dry, no matter how good the pay. “My point is, life has a funny way of teaching you about yourself. Just look at us, the same person, different ages, different times, and we can’t even talk about it. You will find your footing, it will take some time. And you have a whole lifetime to figure out who you are and what you want to be. And in the end, you will be ok. You will be here, by the ocean like you’ve always wanted.”

You smile, and wipe a tear from your face. “Thank you grandmother, it means a lot to me.”

She nods, satisfied with her answer.

“Now, go my dear. Your pack is waiting outside, I can smell the wet hair from here. I will see you next month”.

You embrace her, and open the door, breathing in the salt air.

“Remember my dear, college isn’t forever. Enjoy your time there.”

Grandmother’s final piece of advice drifts out the door as you close it, stepping into the warm summer night. You check your phone and see that it is just past moonrise. You glance up, and sure enough the moon is full. You step into the gathering of trees, your pack waiting for you. College may be tough, but right now you have a pack, and freshman to hunt. You bare your fangs and howl, a chorus of howls joining you before you tear off into the night, in hunt of fresh blood.

[lunarfae714]

scandinavian meltdowns

June.

water falls water falls          i am water                           falling                           calling                           my veins                           collect-called                           the  Mouth of it all.                           She swallows you in one gulp,                           drops you at the bus station of                           the belly of the Source,                   er,                           Socrerer...                           so sore                                        i am mostly water                                        so many trees diseased                                        so many holes in the earth                                        to burrow into im                                        more at home                                        alone in a cemetery than in                                        the concrete ratmaze.                                        two dead stars collided this week                                        like ghosts making Love                                        accidentally.                                        genitalia creation station                                        their bus stop in the sky.                                        they made a black hole baby.                                        now there's a black hole                                        hole, tell.                                        i want to lay my head                                        at the black hole hotel                                        tonight &                                        see what Happens. *** 6.29 love and laundry. clowning. the wheel keeps going & going & going as strong as ever what does it mean to mean what does it mean to surrender under        ender                  ether                          whether or not i am filled with kindness for me for you when i am filled i can give some away of my insides they taste like marmalade a marmalade grenade i am in love with the Sun with living~truly Living with tongue in the mouth in your mouth undressing your mask of fear for fear is really just an ear with a big F before. like the rest of us~ were all just here cause the big F before us. ** someone today said i am always so happy they haven't seen the other half.

***

Autumn Longings.

lingonberries & mushrooms & stone walls & cellars. A corner of my heart dozes in Appalachia, Cakalacky & yearns to wake up. A corner of my heart is fully awake with sweet honey of rawplay. Got a suitcase of the feels~feels for adventures & movement,

a longing & Thirst for newness of

mountains & waters,because not full within? greater, more, expansion. (Process the madness.)

To return to the Wild West shotgun backwoods country,

soak my skin in sulphur springs,

make the autumnal pilgrimage to mama Shasta,

allow my bare feet to dance with the mud of new trails,

let my fingers dance along instruments & my voice meet the duet of my traveling comrade

pilgrimage to proper bluegrass & jam bands, 

mending the heart, through the ears, through the body

Travel with thumb or van, cook fancy & foraged meals over fires, 

never sure where to rest the head, but always finding a place   a dance of sitting & movement.

Mouth full of new moon, 

shine Head full of berries, & whine

Heart full of longing

Eyes full of rainsong 

My heart to yearns for Appalachia,

frog lullabies

folk & fae

wise women & the north-flowing river

waterfalls greater than mine, 

rhododendron like taurists 

dreaming,

                dream            

                              dream                       

dream carry me to the pictures in my head

let my tongue taste it all.

A movement and thirst within

when the peace & complete stillness inside wants to dance around

The longing remains. letting the voice inside

My head travel too

they always tell me You Are not alone

Yet I don't see anyone around

except the eyes of jaguar

When I close mine.

Alone not lonely not alone not lonely.

I paint pretty pictures in the head environmental junky

romantic sizing story

like the time I bloodlet on top of a hidden pyramid,

full moon in Cancer, winter Solstice 

made Love with a man with paws on his arms

Lies from his mouth 

married semen & moonblood

Like a cocktail,Stirred,

just for the ritual

it seemed important to Let winter inside me in

The heat of the Mayan jungle

while a symphony of howler monkeys

they also howl just because.

The more I fall in lovewith a place

Person, plant, or mineral,& walk away,

The more the space IN betweenUsThe nostalgia

Becomes sweet on the tongue

something sexy about Impermanace

you can't hold onto, eye

question authenticity.

  when you don't stay with something long enough does it stay dreamy? or does the dream get better bigger change beautiful choking growing glowing,

does it even matter at all?

what speaks louder, the mind or the belly?

Grateful for the playground

Of dust & wood

Dance & veggies

Wheelbarrows & hedgehogs

Pranks & exploring

Fires & silly songs 

Elderflower & berries

Mushrooms & ropeplay

Mazes & firewalk

Sweet playground of anything & everything & nothing at all.

The feels. 

*** 

Boston Mourning, 10.20.

Eye sit with blue ink & bamboo in warm Sun my spirit has longed for~ in a town of concrete, concrete painted Red with revolution. what Revolves?

eye feel the beating heart of Chinatown, eye feel vitality behind all feet dancing along the earth revolution orchestra.

Red hat woman behind me paints human eyes on rainbow wall, so many eyes, many recycled stories unseen. sitting with sadness & suffering Trusting it makes us us, makes us whole, makes us revolve as our skins wear & take off the clothes of our own cycles.

perfect symmetree leaf dances down my head now as an offering, neon yellow, as it falls.

***

raspberry turnover days, flakiness in my decisions, sweet and bitter in the heart. nothing is too great to be forgiven.

how do you observe the stories that seep from your mind & your month, & soak in the dirt beneath your soles?

***

Sailing.

after a night & wave of Low's lows, with a mind trapped in dark hallways, & an arrow in the sternum, eye rode with thighs coiled around cold metal bars on the bow. Not stuck~still~riding the waves, one with water, the soft marriage of wind & water, mind & feeling, like cycles of fizz. A load in motion, a wonder, to feel the feels & not get swept away in the washing machine of the soul: thank you, Father air for your breath like frigid hands that slap my face, hold my watery ways. We dance together in solid nothings. Low's lows paint my six sailing swords.

***

September Mushrooms.

smoke & mist & barns & things. when the fog lifts & Father Sky blows morning cheekkisses of cool air, the mycelium surfaces from the dirt of everything. the soiled soil of all avoided~the sweetness & the sickness, the sour, arises after tears to lick or not lick ? we bring to the surface mindless habits ooze from the ground ing & we jumped out windows this week at least the late summer sunflowers stand tall to kiss the moon goodnight, the moon tonight that moves from mercurys mind to watery river, moving water. We stand in the river because all is changing & we choose where we stand in the impermanence we can stay grounded, standing among mycelium guides

***

Summer Soulstice. at the time when the sun never set soul-stice the sun moved to cancer the water rises from the dirt sunshine eyes move from i think to i feel. a lover left today & the sun never stopped shining. lion day yamyub with colorful strangers sounds like a lunch special curiosity dances with play i walked to the bare rocks word vomit amid long walks~ not much sleeping these days, daydreams strong along new paths, new waters. midsummer is coming-- in the night sun we roll giant rusty wheel across the field to the pole it strikes rhubarb patches & yurts. bowling. draw the medicine wheel in everything, & remember the words of your grandmother from the north, where father Wind blows coldness into people. magic spells, casual my dad, jar jar binks & i heat the boiler run in circles round the berriesclimb up & down ladders to make board games real. pee in each others mouths for kicks make up stories that make us laugh in ways i haven't. not holding back nice to practice screaming & touching in silly ways.watch dad & his many lovers watch dad as everyone asks him to fix things. falling into dream in an old army tent like a hut set the canvas on fire one nightdad was too busy fixing other peoples’ things.reindeer fur burning strong.dad has more trinkets than ill know. falling into dream together because i wanted to watch the fire dance before i dreamt. in a playground of exploration emotion acceptance release scream, cry, lick, fuck, be, see every living thing as a reflection a microcosm embrace the impermance the challenge to remain stable within. **

august  

still in Scandinavia, aching for Father Sun's hot kiss on the skin, feeling wavy-er then ever, riding waves like climbing mountains, honoring heart openings & embracing shenanigans. doing the vegetable dance for life.

PLAYground..

***

late June’s dreamy, cotton candy skies the eves, during the hour or so of darkness.

✨ Wild wind gods speak in the night, hot sun in the day finally, sporadic rainfall before hundreds of toes dance onto this space for a new festival. trash has been painted, repurposed gifts for Spirit, sweat has danced down my skin where ticks furrow, fiery logs have fallen from stoves awake from dreaming, love created in the medicine wheel of trees around the hammock, dice has been rolled, all my walls of belief~framework has been tumbling into chaos as bodies move with the wind of the moment.

mmmm the mouth is full of words like candy, songs as my roots open up, and mind full of visions that lead the way.

*** 

strawberry moon

June Moon of strawberries & primary colors freckled seeds, freckled skins freckles are stars on the body grab some ink & use my elbow, play some constellation tic-tac-toe. gentle moon sensual moon warm blood ripe fruit tall grass fast tongues.. June Moon full, the traveling philosopher whispers to me do. do. do. do. do. do. before the mind speaks first. *** Summer 

scatter weather 

changes each moment

leaves in my yoni

after a forest runereading

lets check folks’ bellybuttons 

use that as currency

we grew from the bellybutton

is it our center?

law contract with Great Spirit;

we choose what we handle

we choose the Screenplay.

fire tending;

build up lincoln logs

iron rods on throats

bare your sole 

kiss the embers

burn a fear or two.

whisper of the ways

the tradition of the Sun & the Moon

or, dark magic, the

circles on my palms

foresee great possibility.

organized virgo

yurt with a carpet

carpet on the grass

a ceiling of ropes 

for getting choked, or

tied into a cobweb

prey for a monstrous spider,

on the rock of moss & ticks.

tonight, 

start a fire

sang some songs

made some Love

dreamed some dreams.

dust in the mouth

dust in the eyes,

happy as ever.

we all want more Love.

the hedgehog comes in dreams

and in waking

under the bed

to tell us 

silently

to take off our armor.

***

Late October Departure.. Reflections. Mirror Pond.

grateful for space for watery reflection~to move through feelings as scorpion piches us strong…there's a hue of heaviness across manialand now, with the storms & schemes, with One face calling the shots, amid the social/environmental raping so far from the natural, defining counteracting goodness & personal, local actions of earthwalking warriors to focus on.. Together honoring, protecting the Great Mother…

the last half year moved so quickly because time isn't linear & i felt so held in the space i was in witnessing & the laundry cycles that make me me. connected to YOU-expressions of the same PIZZA !!!!!

eyes with new vision:: towards the great mysteries they are SO FUNNY i want to roll around in dirt and rub it deep into the untouched corners my body . get ground-ed in the dirt of everything use my pain as natural gasoline to fill the vehicle of me & keep the traveler's wheels turning from the ground up to purple cosmos lets marry material & unseen, squares & triangles merge into WHEELS no right no wrong no judgment all paths roadmaps to appreciation station can we remain rooted among change or explode a little all is okay!

thank you, we cannot do this alone. paths of Love realizing the vision.There are so many ways we can live, more options available then we could ever dream 

up.what do you dream UP?

***

May Medicine

the Wheel spins, all is changing each moment, expanding, contracting, being. All a process.

Everything comes from no-thing & to no-thing shall return.  everything inside of us comes from the earth.  

the four Great Paths~Wisdom & spirit in the North, Love & innocence in the South, Introspection in the West, Illumination in the East.

if the thunder don't get you then the lightning will.  Walk in love. How can we change the lens of our situation to one of love?

***

Beltane Blessing.

the midpoint between spring & summer, when Father Sun & Mama Gaia light the fires of their passion on this wet & ready, windblown & wonderful Earth.

The rains cleansed our watery souls, the wind has swept away clutter in our minds so we're open & honest to our truths, ((honoring our unique creativity that lifts the universal body)), the Sun starts the fire & passion our bodies deeply know but minds often forget, & the Earth lets us ground~ barefeet become roots in the mud of everything.

Mmmm, go out & see the messages of Spring. What is fertile & alive? Make love in the forest. Tap in to the wisdom of the faeries around you. Speak sweetly to the plants in bloom, medicine to your spirit. Plant flowers & build a fire, let go & breathe in.

***

you are perfect as you are we are not raised to believe this we are not raised as we were when we slept & spent each moment with the earth We can rekindle The love affair if we care 🍂 You are perfect

***

these last are rupi kaur’s words:

do you have any idea how much of a miracle you are. how lovely it's been. and how lovely it will always be. i am kneeling before you. saying thank you. i am sending my love to your eyes. may they always see good in people. and may you always practice kindness. may we see each other as one. may we be nothing short of in love with everything the universe has to offer. and may we always stay grounded. rooted. our feet planted firmly onto the earth.

[changingbirdpoems]

poems about stefan going forward in time

sonic youth

it was 2:45 in the morning sunday morning it was two songs nestled in my ear, beat & struck with the chord of time that I keep curled inside my seventeenth rib cage, this year’s molecules. it’s east out here, but i see in every direction

eternal sin sky eyes again

falling or rising to this, the sun is broken on a mist beam… kindred, what a word, just like people who are made out of clay or something else you would use in elementary school muse

-

         I’ll teach you to sleep

She said into concrete, baseball field lights singing at trees

It’s meditation, really Air for skin, feathers replacing hands to brush-                                                                  you could be from this same bird

Who sang up that we should love each side equally, with sleepless bedroom eyes Buddhism aside, this is gentle suffering

-

body blue as toes, shriveled with moisture but glowing bursting out with skylines and horizons on your shoulders shuddering through daybreak, clutching to nothing jump the fence undress

        using your eyes as lungs

breathe-blink, breathe-blink, breathe-blink skinned by the second

-

The Way We Get By

Another dappled late summer afternoon with papers in hand, golden sound waves beneath my fingertips, rising and falling with the leafy pressure of my palms- hoping you will taste like this air, nothing shining, whistles, cicadas, cigarette, honey bees braided through my clean hair, like the stillest, tallest branches of every tree in this circle of a day, tugging at my morning lily terraces like a gentle reminder of how I used to lean my arm out of the window and count each breath in french, un deux trois quatre cinq six sept huit neuf dix onze douze treize quatorze quinze seize dix-sept dix-huit dix-neuf

vingt Just waiting in the most being way possible, purple glow across parking lots, lettuce climbing out of garden beds, rustling light. End everything and begin again, remembering to stretch afterwards I can receive anything from here forward Tender sky, flailing grass, feather tucked behind one ear and pure lungs, melting ice, blue dictionaries, the way we get by firmly in hand, freckles and nothing and no one, but everything. Smooth skin fresh like soap, childhood whispering away and your eyes a song 5 minutes, 41 seconds long. Clouds beginning to realize to fly, airplanes made of twigs–

leave all your treasure behind, you need only oxygen in your lungs to float.

-

Your Debutante Just Knows What You Need, But I Know What You Want (a head full of pesticides)

and

             old       river way

silent amongst thunder, rustles in its creaking waves and breaks through every one

I can use my words my way. ambivalence no more

Red wine makes me suicidal/ Blood in glass/ My mind grows idle/

and I curl up beneath and I hold my breath and I hold yours in and I cup each hands, a Dickensian prayer

And I touch the Mona Lisa.   and like a fool I mixed them and I have no sense of time. Bun nuh nuh nuh nuh nuh nuh Well I see

Honey Please Don’t

Soaring through the keys, I sit on blankets and know what he really loves you for. But she breaks just like tiny girls, enter Saxophones

From now on I will call you Cellar Door. So touch my hand and my shirt and swallow down every liquid cure you can find.

-

Another 11:11 on Another Sunday Morning (a description of a surreal, visually intoxicating dream I had last night)

“When do you have to leave?”

“Oh, you know, after,” those widening eyes, the knowing giggle of rainstained grass I lead you by the hand through my mountain home, the sun ricocheting through yellow green rooms and sheds, moss beneath bare feet, like therapy.

Your fish-blue eyes darting, feeling everything, content in your five senses, your biology, softly giving the laws of nature your small redeeming glance. You know already that we will be sleeping in a Spirit Ditch. Small talk with my father, and we explore into a basement reminiscent of trashy middle school fantasy. Subtle hands, featherless, at my waist, my neck, brushing and gone, some salvation across a Western-set sun, and a kiss beneath my ear.

Has-been fireworks strewn on sidetables, tumultuous furniture; we immediately acknowledge an abandoned silence in this space, with the soft impact of hand on hand.

Becoming a force beyond a presence, your arm turns my body in place. We in your motion turn and you may move us. Three words released, convictionless, significant, searching, bare, unexpected.. Not out of the blue; some warmer color: “I love you.” Your words like a rumbling resonating electric guitar solo soaring over highways, cathartic, a blanket or sheet of static and pounding, threading nothing and I think of songs as you press in, a rolling pin without a coat of flour, pulling me in your motion, moving me, Gentle Brother “Will you still mean that in the morning?” Because that is the mark. Some movie-scene answer of always meaning it, and I know exactly where you are. You have adapted to the mountains, with so many places left to go. You have forgotten your restlessness in my little shoulder touches, my kingdom.

We will never show sleeve but for when we show arm, because we are good men and Luciana is lost.

  I brought you to this house as a partner in crime, fellow renegade, to dip into lakes and leap down stone thousands of miles high. We sit in the bright, lampless basement of broken glass and blue mattresses, and then you are somewhere else, but this makes every sense. A girl walks in and suddenly she shows me television in the absence of your eyes of blue; I wait for the men who want to rule the world. She needs to record something, and I direct her towards the box of VHS. Her pixie hair and sullen face suggest she’s not alone; soon enough a party seeps in. I only wanted moss. You return looking for me, become spellbound by the lights and heroin, and watch with an arm melting into mine. We stand in real-time together as the party becomes color streaks around us Buzzes to us: Teach me, dear creature, how to think and speak; Lay open to my earthly-gross conceit Smother’d in errors, feeble, shallow, weak             The folded meanings of your words’ deceit. Against my soul’s pure truth why labour you

To make it wander in an unknown field?          Are you a god? would you create me new? Transform me then, and to your power I’ll yield. We are princes in the galaxy that spans from where they are to where we are now. And then we return to light. In a simple country room. “Will you still mean it in the morning?” But I crawl in. It is thyself, mine own self’s better part, mine eye’s clear eye. Gently, with the minutes, we are air, too real, everything I knew was beneath and above.

-

as though, if you touch gently enough, you’ll believe you don’t have fingers tendrils of nothing seeping out of sea silence evaporating

like haiku is breath (marble binocular eyes) like you are exhale my palms melt to milk I feel your quiet shaking me awake; last touch.

-

“im not concerned with Love and law. im not saying these words to impress you. i will die alone but that in itself is destiny. i need you to Know.”

Honey & Gravel I laughed and I don’t care I love sin

the fact that you are married-

sleep

I burn to touch everything with a heart of darkness

but some things make me pure (the one I really need) Linger on because what the fuck are we here for anyway

but to feel that emptiness, but to convince Somebody that we are nothing. Don’t forget astronomy, honey, please don’t. As if we are here.

I don’t care about any destiny What is is is is and destiny doesn’t care about me, daytripper, nighttripper, mindsoul nothingness

WHAT are mirrors made to do, and why does my mouth crave everything So who would I be if I didn’t want you inside

I mean that with incredible writhing warmth

is is is pure pure pure Children of cathartic silence, soar across me

feel me into earth I will never Know anything but mountains so give me nothing that is not green and touch touch touch touch no, shhhhhhhh Jimmy the strings of everything, and destiny on a wheel of Jesusblood

my entire network of matter is there already the way you should be held Nobody Has Eyes so I do not care except for the muscles throughout my frame who remind me to crawl in Crawl in like something that once learned to fly

FLY

everything I knew was beneath and above crawl inside me

fly inside me if you have a voice (I am the sun, I am the air)                                             You can break your molecules apart by sheer will.

-

Let Me Play It

When morning is like the sugary sensation of wing-bone ripping the delicate flesh of my shoulder bones, there is a readiness, a readiness to let me in, let me be here, and count the curvatures of my spine into the cigarette-strewn robin blue paneling beneath even water

My Sweet Lord, somewhere nowhere eyes, parting hands and lips, wounds, wing-membrane and tender ginger headaches sprinkling spices in my hair, sandalwood oil between my fingers, sex and absynthe and disfiguring, luminous heroin like levitation and you the patron saint of travellers, or the first Catholic martyr stoned to death, but who would not feel so alone if everybody must Palm to palm, you breathe nothing like I do, a separate anatomy and chemistry: I a bird You a feather, borne out on nothing, brahman nirvana heaven darkness making pure even sorrow, granulated and unadulterated, white opium of mutual understanding, two bird cages wired together, doors swinging wide open

-

hear me make a noise I have felt your ears and know they received sound once

choosing not to hear is just to break me, is just blue swirling forget

you felt everything in the pale whites of your eyes linger on, hear me

-

3D

There’s the part that loves, and the part that still loves

There’s the line folded, twisted, the möbius strip, the breath

Color flowing with shape, sound, taste interchangeable guitar strings, warming air, pain unacknowledged, and being pulled by my center to all the things I would like to be a part of.

There’s whom we love, and whom we still love

One the heart, one the hand

-

My lost muse   below the blanket of chemicals, I remember you The pure messiah, a field by the road, a man-made lake We jumped the fence and took off our clothes Songs of honeysuckle and time   desperate hopes in rhyme It broke me in two   my fickle prophet My salvation, the one

from days long gone