seven-sided-cootiecatcher
monkey business only đ”
49 posts
Latest Posts by seven-sided-cootiecatcher
untitled by james baldwin, who was born 100 years ago today. happy birthday <3
Swimming, One Day in August
by Mary Oliver
It is time now, I said, for the deepening and quieting of the spirit among the flux of happenings.
Something had pestered me so much I thought my heart would break. I mean, the mechanical part.
I went down in the afternoon to the sea which held me, until I grew easy.
About tomorrow, who knows anything. Except that it will be time, again, for the deepening and quieting of the spirit.
Axiom
by Margaret Atwood
Axiom: you are a sea. Your eye- lids curve over chaos
My hands where they touch you, create small inhabited islands
Soon you will be all earth: a known land, a country.
what i didn't know before by ada limĂłn
*
alex dimitrov, july
women invented lesbian sex so they could have sex with each other
When I say I'm fr a freak this is what I mean
Art. Auguste Rodin, The eternal idol (detail)
one hundred love sonnets: XVII by Pablo Neruda tr. Mark Eisner
âMooseâ 2008
against death by Noor Hindi
we lived happily during the war by ilya kaminsky
Delightful paintings by Brian Kershisnik
oh thats hot as hell. if only sex was real
I AM 17. I HAVE A LOT TO SAY.
by Jackson Holbert
My mother was around all the time back then, always walking in and out of rooms carrying stacks of âlaptop computers. She spent most ofâ her daylight hours blowing dust out of circuits, fans, motherboards, daughterboards. Sometimes her little canister would die and sheâd have to use her mouth. My father was gone all day every day getting repetitive stress injuries at the newspaper. He was a journalist and everyone hated him, even his friends. Nothing really happened during my entire childhood so he ended up spending most days shooting paper footballs through a miniature goal post he kept in the locked drawer ofâ his desk. He was rarely kind. And in the few, short instances he was, it still didnât seem like it. Something about his mouth made everything he did seem either sinister or inept. He was completely inscrutable except for a period in the spring of 2004, when he was just sad. I was young that year and my sister was older. She came home from college for the whole summer of 2005. I was 14. She told me not to worry about other people, not to worry about war, not to worry about a thing. That was the greatest summer of my short life. I had no friends. Oh I had people I talked to at school but once summer hit it was like every school bus had crashed headfirst into a wall except the one that was carrying me and my silver trumpet. I had that tall kind of âjoy that you can only feel when your bones still have another few inches left in them. My sister and I would watch three movies a day and never go to the lake. Everybody says it seems like summer never ends until it does. But thatâs a lie. I knew so little back then but the one thing I did know was that all my friends were coming back and I would once more join them in the hallways, in the classrooms, once more join them for hours after school in the far part of âthe parking lot and would continue to do so until I turned 16 and got a job cutting my fingers on the cheese grater at the Pizza Factory. After that everything was all work work work go home Jeremy get your feet off the sofa âJeremy work work math homework band-aids and on a good day a little trumpet and on the best days all trumpet. I wanted my life to be about music but in the end it was about getting Bâs in subjects such as Spanish. I donât know, sometimes it feels like those summers really did never end, they went on forever and just got progressively worse. We like to pretend that one day we just walk into our adulthood like a congressman walking into the ocean, but we all know thatâs not true. What really happens is we walk into the same building day after day, but every night some crew comes in and replaces something little â a lamp housing, the chair of a conference table â until nothing is the same, until the building is not as we remembered it at all, until the building is stronger, up to code but a lot less fun, and the lighting, the lighting is fluorescent and obscene.
"The Bull" Ocean Vuong
He stood alone in the backyard, so dark the night purpled around him. I had no choice. I opened the door & stepped out. Wind in the branches. He watched me with kerosene -blue eyes. What do you want? I asked, forgetting I had no language. He kept breathing, to stay alive. I was a boy â which meant I was a murderer of my childhood. & like all murderers, my god was stillness. My god, he was still there. Like something prayed for by a man with no mouth. The green-blue lamp swirled in its socket. I didnât want him. I didnât want him to be beautiful â but needing beauty to be more than hurt gentle enough to hold, I reached for him. I reached â not the bull â but the depths. Not an answer but an entrance the shape of an animal. Like me.
late spring by Mary Oliver
shoutout to whatever staff member has this bumper sticker at my school
"The witch, the whore and the monster are all really the same archetype. Dangerous and unpredictable, they defy the archetypes of ideal womanhood that we have encountered throughout this book. They defy Venus with their ageing bodies and menstrual blood. (All things that are suppressed in our images of Venus overflow in our monsters.) They undermine maiden virginity with their unapologetic sexuality. They don't submit themselves to their husbands, nor are they exclusive with their partners. They are either happy in their own liberated independence, or they operate in covens of collective womanhood. Monstrous women know things that others don't, not just facts or magic spells but deep, primeval knowledge about bodies, time, death, and the powers of reproduction. And they age and entropy in a way that mirrors the inevitable flow and decay of all things. They are connected to wild nature in the outdoors, away from the feminised domestic spaces of the house. Most monstrous of all is that they know their power."
excerpt from Women in the Picture: What Culture Does With Female Bodies by Catherine McCormack
some delicious excerpts from "How It Feels" by Jenny Zhang (one of my all-time faves, the whole thing is a treat to read and different every time)