“When you find out who you are, you will no longer be innocent. That will be sad for others to see. All that knowledge will show on your face and change it. But sad only for others, not for yourself. You will feel you have a kind of wisdom, very mistaken, but a mistake of some power to you and so you will sadly treasure it and grow it,“ – Lorrie Moore, A Gate at the Stairs.
lips
“leaving is not enough; you must
stay gone. train your heart
like a dog. change the locks
even on the house he’s never
visited. you lucky, lucky girl.
you have an apartment
just your size. a bathtub
full of tea. a heart the size
of Arizona, but not nearly
so arid. don’t wish away
your cracked past, your
crooked toes, your problems
are papier mache puppets
you made or bought because the vendor
at the market was so compelling you just
had to have them." – Frida Kahlo to Marty McConnell, a poem by Marty McConnell.
I don’t actually like being scared. I can’t sit through most horror movies, I can’t handle “death-defying” roller coasters. I jump about ten feet in the air if someone sneaks up on me. But, for some reason, some of the sexual situations I enjoy are probably about five times more risky and fear-driven than any of these things. And, oddly enough, I can handle them just fine.
Sometimes, I want you to make me lovely just so you can ruin me. I want you to hold my face when you apply the makeup, reinforcing the control even in this act of service. And then I want to see it wind up on the sides of your hands, on the sheets, smeared across my face. I want the meticulous work you’ve put into me to mean nothing beyond a demonstration that I am yours to perfect and destroy.
“Please do not understand me too quickly.” – André Gide.
“I love Ivy. She’s a pistol."
I spent more than five minutes with my good friend’s current manfriend last night for the first time. And sometime during the night, he turned to my friend and said this.
I’m flattered, but ugh…I’m always the pistol. Or the character.
Ever since I was a little girl I intimidated the shit out of most men. Because I was smart and I was quick and I could head them off at the pass like no other. And I’m blunt and a little boisterous sometimes and I’ve been (really flatteringly) compared to Woody Allen.
Which is super if you’re a man, it seems. But it sends your average guy running for the hills. Women are mostly good with it, but God it’s hard finding available lesbians/bi girls on this campus (they’re either too close a friend or just unbearable or in a relationship).
And so I know the payoff is I’ll hopefully find someone who can handle all the (second time using it on this blog today) chutzpah, but it’s so frustrating to make a quip and have some guy take it totally seriously or have it go over their heads or to have them just write me off as a character or, eugh, a pistol.
kitten
photo: ellen von unwerth
vanity fair 2011
“Great Babylon was naked, oh she stood there trembling for me,
and Bethlehem inflamed us both
like the shy one at some orgy.
And when we fell together all our flesh was like a veil
that I had to draw aside to see
the serpent eat its tail."
“I looked at his eyes. I was thinking: they are bluer than the sea.
But then the sea is not blue at all, is it?” – Judy Budnitz, If I Told You Once.
You all are a bunch of pervs for mostly suggesting I go naked. As for the legitimate clothing suggestions, thank you.
My friend took pity last night and came over. She dug out some tall wedges, a high-waisted skirt, and this little tank top. I insisted that it was a little over the top, but she replied that it was just fine. Aside from formals and other sorts of events, I typically stick to skinny jeans and a top or a casual cute dress when going out. The difference would be perceptible and I didn’t want him to think I was like some kind of seventh grader smearing glitter all over myself for my first date to the movies where our parents would be watching from a few rows behind.
Well. He noticed.
In a just staring when he thought I wasn’t looking way. In a very eagerly offering to rub my back when I told him it was a bit sore way. In a desperate attempt to keep his hands to himself while I was sitting on his lap and he was rubbing my back way.
We still had our banter, but it seemed to be riddled with knowing smiles and little chuckles. Sometime during the night, I was told by this random gay guy that my legs were “pure sex”. I blushed and sort of leaned back against him as I thanked the guy who had said it. From the look I was getting over my shoulder, I think he agreed.
We had a great time, but the evening was cut short due to some stuff not really related to either of us. Maybe I could’ve gone home with him, but I didn’t. I sort of want to leave a little bit to mystery,
(via traveling with the ghost (旧館 Old): Олег Михеев (Oleg Mikheev) × Алена Водонаева (Alena Vodonaeva))
“You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.” – Mary Oliver, Wild Geese.