Jeff Buckley / New Year’s Eve Prayer (a poem)

You, my love, are allowed to forget
About the Christmas you just spent stressed out in your parents’ house.

You, my love, are allowed to shed
The weight of all the years before, like bad disco clothes,
Save them for a night of dancing, stoned with your lover.

You, my love, are allowed to let yourself drown
Every night in bottomless wild and naked symbolic dreams.

You, my love, in sleep can unlock
Your youth and your most terrifying magic and dreamings for the courageous.

You, my love, are allowed to grab my guitar
And sing me idiot love songs if you’ve lost your ability to speak.
Keep it down to two minutes.

You, my love, are allowed to rot and to die
And to live again, more alive and incandescent than before.

You, my love, are allowed to beat the shit out of your television.
Choke its thoughts and corrupt its mind.
Kill, kill, kill, kill the motherfucker before the song of zombiefied pain and panic and malaise and its narrow right-winged vision and its cheap commercial gang rape becomes the white noise of the world.
Turn about is fair play.

You, my love, are allowed to forgive and love your television.

You, my love, are allowed to speak in kisses to those around you and those up in heaven.

You, my love, are allowed to show your babies how to dance full bodied, starry eyed, audacious, supernatural and glorified.

You, my love, are allowed to suck in every single endeavour.

You, my love, are allowed to be soaked like a lovers’ blanket in the New York summertime with the wonder of your own special gift.

You, my love, are allowed to receive praise,
You, my love, are allowed to have time,
You, my love, are allowed to understand,
You, my love, are allowed to love,

Woman disobey,
When little men believe,
You, my love, are Rebellion.

the onion’s ‘best cities for millennials’ is so real

the onion’s ‘best cities for millennials’ is so real

currently: slowly but surely erasing my black mood with a cup of tea and the largest slice of pound cake I have ever had the fortune to encounter, definitely made for at least three people but here I am, valiantly spearing the last bite.

it is hard sometimes in a new place. the ugly bits aren’t charming or endearing, aren’t part of the landscape of home. the uncertainties add up. the self-questioning (am I doing the right thing? what brought me here? do I really want this? am I good enough?) runs steadily underneath everything like radio static.

so I bring myself to coffee shops and sit in the corner and spill tea on myself and laugh at the crumbs in my hair and laugh at all the dumb, perpetual anxiety that has always, throughout my entire life, flooded me in a new place and faded away as I learn the streets and find the silent places that become my own. it just takes time, I tell myself; just bear with it, I tell myself; just drink your tea and read your book and breathe and laugh at your frazzled, tired, self-conscious self.

4,329 plays

sinner-amongst-saved-men:

remember when you lost your shit and drove the car into the garden
you got out and said i’m sorry to the vines and no one saw it

Holy shit this song.

The National feels like fall.

(Source: mulderplease, via thosepeskykids)

She recognized that that is how friendships begin: one person reveals a moment of strangeness, and the other person decides just to listen and not exploit it.
I would just like to say that Florida excels at clouds — big ice cream scoops of clouds, buttery pink and lavender, lit up by the Gulf coast sunset and bobbing overhead like balloons in the Macy’s Day parade. 

I pulled over to take a photo of this sign and looked at the bright tangled palms and wildflowers, dripping wet after a sunshower, and thought, “Huh. I live here now.”

I would just like to say that Florida excels at clouds — big ice cream scoops of clouds, buttery pink and lavender, lit up by the Gulf coast sunset and bobbing overhead like balloons in the Macy’s Day parade.

I pulled over to take a photo of this sign and looked at the bright tangled palms and wildflowers, dripping wet after a sunshower, and thought, “Huh. I live here now.”

So apparently I’m moving to Tampa. Got approximately 80 books, 14 journals, and one houseplant loaded in here, so we are pretty much good to go. 

(made it about two blocks from home before I started tearing up at the wheel)

So apparently I’m moving to Tampa. Got approximately 80 books, 14 journals, and one houseplant loaded in here, so we are pretty much good to go.

(made it about two blocks from home before I started tearing up at the wheel)

bookbroken:

    “Never have I ever,” I said, and I thought about what came next: never have I ever masturbated at work or been taped having sex - something Adam was keen on. The thing about the game was that we all wanted to say things that we had done, things we desperately needed to reveal to others, to shock and surprise and impress. Every statement had a story behind it, something people were waiting to confess.
    Adam nudged me gently on the shoulder with his foot.
    “Never have I ever,” I began again, “been unfaithful to someone I love.”
    “Define unfaithful,” Adam said.
    “Define someone you love,” Paul said. […]
    “Use your own judgment,” I told them.
    And everyone drank. (100-101)

-Easy for You by Shannan Rouss

(via elesheva)

I’m reading The Dream of a Common Language and last night found what’s now one of my very very favorite poems —

PHANTASIA FOR ELVIRA SHATAYEV

by Adrienne Rich

(Shatayev was the leader of a women’s climbing team, all of whom died in a storm on Lenin Peak, August 1974. Later, Shatayev’s husband found and buried the bodies)

The cold felt cold until our blood
grew colder      then the wind
died down and we slept

If in this sleep I speak
it’s with a voice no longer personal
(I want to say      with voices)
When the wind tore      our breath from us at last
we had no need of words
For months      for years      each one of us
had felt her own yes      growing in her
slowly forming      as she stood at windows      waited
for trains      mended her rucksack      combed her hair
What we were to learn      was simply      what we had
up here      as out of all words      that yes      gathered
to meet a No of no degrees
the black hole      sucking the world in

I feel you climbing toward me
your cleated bootsoles leaving      their geometric bite
colossally embossed      on microscopic crystals
as when I trailed you in the Caucasus
Now I am further
ahead      than either of us dreamed      anyone would be
I have become
the white snow packed like asphalt by the wind
the women I love      lightly flung      against the mountain
that blue sky
our frozen eyes unribboned      through the storm
we could have stitched that blueness      together      like a quilt

You come (I know this)      with your love      your loss
strapped to your body      with your tape-recorder      camera
ice pick      against advisement
to give us burial in the snow      and in your mind
While my body lies out here
flashing like a prism      into your eyes
how could you sleep      You climbed here for yourself
we climbed for ourselves

When you have buried us      told your story
ours does not end      we stream
into the unfinished      the unbegun
the possible
Every cell’s core of heat      pulsed out of us
into the thin air      of the universe
the armature of rock beneath these snows
this mountain      which has taken     the imprint of our minds
through changes elemental and minute
as those we underwent
to bring each other here
choosing ourselves      each other      and this life
whose every breath      and grasp      and further foothold
is somewhere      still enacted      and continuing

In the diary I wrote: Now we are ready
and each of us knows it      I have never loved
like this      I have never seen
my own forces so taken up and shared
and given back
After the long training      the early sieges
we are moving almost effortlessly in our love

In the diary as the wind      began to tear
all the tents over us      I wrote:
We know now we have always been in danger
down in our separateness
and now up here together      but till now
we had not touched our strength

In the diary torn from my fingers I had written:
What does love mean
what does it mean      ”to survive”
A cable of blue fire ropes our bodies
burning together in the snow      We will not live
to settle for less      We have dreamed of this
all of our lives

(1974)