“There’s a dream where we break all the dishes in my kitchen and then
eat the pieces.
I know it’s a dream because we are still alive after we swallow.
It sounds more like a nightmare,
and it would be, except that
we are together,
so even the fractured ceramic is
tender as we chew it.
There’s a dream where we want our own world,
so we cut it out of blue and green paper
like a science project,
except your silhouette is every piece of land
and my spine is every mountain range laying across you.
Here are the broken plates
mending inside of us, healing soft
and pliant, bending like the necks of swans,
forgetting that they are glass.
Maybe we can forget, too.
I can kiss you where it’s sharp
until you can’t remember how the pain
made you someone to be afraid of.
There’s a dream where nothing bleeds, but everything is alive,
where broken things can be made
unbroken just by wishing it.
Let me tell you about the earth
and what it looked like before we
got our hands on it.
Let me tell you about the earth and
how it broke apart like a plate on
the tile floor.
We all know what it is to be unmade.
In a dream, we tried to forget.”
— Caitlyn Siehl, "Drift" (via alonesomes)
• 14 April 2014
We Should Have Met on the Internet
I keep wondering if your feet would edge off of the end of my bed.
Today to break the silence you said, “If you could go anywhere in the world in this exact moment, where would you go?” I wouldn’t make this up. I know poets do that, root pretty sentences out of nothing, but these knuckles, bloodied from fighting words for something better than just blue or love, are not a poet’s knuckles, and this, three in the morning warring sleep because I can’t turn how your voice sounds when you speak about sanctuary into words — this is not poetry.
If this were a poem, and if I were a poet, I would have looked at you and said, “Anywhere with you.”
Because this isn’t, and because I’m not, I looked away and said, “Honestly, honestly, I have no idea.”
I am not good at words, or bravery, or looking you in the eyes.
Ask me again, but this time keep your eyes down.
Your bed, or mine: our feet, overlapping, both edging off the mattress like a dare, or like love, whichever sounds better, whichever makes you twitch for a pen — does that sound like a place that you’d like?
Tell me, does it sound like poetry?
• 9 April 2014
songs to get you through the last stretch of the cold / school
listen | download
• 8 April 2014
joan of arc came back as a little girl in japan, and her father told her to stop listening to her imaginary friends.
elvis was born again in a small village in sudan, he died hungry, age 9, never knowing what a guitar was.
michelangelo was drafted into the military at age 18 in korea, he painted his face black with shoe polish and learned to kill.
jackson pollock got told to stop making a mess, somewhere in russia.
hemingway, to this day, writes dvd instruction manuals somewhere in china. he’s an old man on a factory line. you wouldn’t recognise him.
gandhi was born to a wealthy stockbroker in new york. he never forgave the world after his father threw himself from his office window, on the 21st floor.
and everyone, somewhere, is someone, if we only give them a chance.
— iain s. thomas, i wrote this for you (via dobslovearmy)
• 6 April 2014
Colorful Stairs, Tehran, Iran
• 31 March 2014
Often, in an immigrant family, it’s a very big departure for a child to say: I want to be an artist, not a doctor, not a lawyer, or an engineer. The father, here, tells his daughter what so many immigrant parents tell their children: Art is not the safest route in life. We didn’t sacrifice all this for you to take up a precarious profession.
He tries to comfort her, at the same time, by insisting that being an immigrant makes her an artist already. And this is a fascinating notion: that re-creating yourself this way, re-creating your entire life is a form of reinvention on par with the greatest works of literature. This brings art into the realm of what ordinary people do to in order to survive. It takes away the notion that art is too lofty for the masses, and puts it in the day-to-day. I’ve never seen anyone connect being an artist and an immigrant so explicitly, and for me it was a revelation.
— Edwidge Danticat, All Immigrants are Artists. (via mimasux)
(Source: beyondvictoriana, via thespacesamidlove)
• 12 March 2014
Selections from ‘Rituals’, by Noorann Matties
Forced to examine ourselves in ways many normally avoid, Rituals as a project sought to capture the moment in which we our lives become devoid of distraction and we become intimately aware of ourselves. By photographing people’s personal beauty rituals I attempted to capture this awareness, this intimacy that occurs only when one is forced to examine their own body, the most basic thing that is theirs, and build upon it.
view the complete series at http://inconnumag.com/rituals/
• 11 March 2014
Blue is the color of the ocean that sank Atlantis
I only notice the color in your eyes because of the thumb I managed to burn earlier. Blue. I only notice because I am too busy trying to will the pulsing press of warm-warming blood to remember to not let my eyes linger. The largest volcano on Earth roots through navy blue depths of the Pacific Ocean. Your eyes are blue but my thumb is still violent red and raw, scorching, and the ice I was holding before you came in is mostly water on the fabric of my jeans and on the linoleum now. You speak in that early morning dew way you do, syllables soft and holding on to each other, and there is a delicacy, a human flesh and blood frailty in the moment that I am too violent, too volcanic to know what to do with. Blue is the color of million miles deep oceans and eternity reaching skies and probably the never ending end-edge of the cosmos that we will never catch because it is always growing, yet we sit at opposite ends of the table in this 12 by 12 room and it’s only the distance between the blue of your eyes and the melted wax blood under my skin that I can grasp. Blue, and my burned thumb; blue, and my scorched body. You look at me with eyes that sink and I take back all of the day dreaming I have done of summer. You look at me when I am looking at you I want to follow winter all the way down the southern hemisphere. I am tender all over.
• 11 March 2014