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how about a kiss, saumensch?

new space, new place, new ya-ya-ya

"and it’s for champagne,
for that airy, golden promise of a fresh start,
the forgetting of a year that could have gone better and didn’t,
that could have been worse but wasn’t—
because in the grand scheme of things you’re
probably dying just as slowly as the rest of us,
so drink up, cheers, c’est la vie

and remember to love thy crooked neighbor
with all thy crooked heart"

Kristina Haynes, from  ”C is For" (via turtleduckie)

And oh, the oh my nape of the neck. The up-swept oh my nape of the neck. I could walk behind anyone and fall in love. Don’t stop. Don’t turn around. — Dorianne Laux

I follow strangers on the streets.
"Oh my," you’d say, a spoonful mocking, a teardrop teasing. Those syllables roll around in my mouth, a sea pebble beneath my tongue. Oh my my my.
I am in wait for you. I live in wait. Inside of time, I scurry and wander, lost among minutes, hours, days, a crab on the seafloor of time. It doesn’t melt, but skip around, wrinkled and worn. This time is stretched out and faded, it won’t survive another bout in the wash. Another day on the streets.

Oh, but the strangers I follow on those streets. Time steps aside and I follow, and step outside of time, free. I select by neck. Oh my, the necks I see. The necks my eyes touch and touch and touch. The necks my mouth will never taste. And oh, the napes of the necks. That sweet nape of the neck. That fuzzy nape of neck. That exposed nape of the neck. That please kiss me nape of the neck. That oh my nape of the neck. Your oh my nape of the neck.

I follow to find you. Hello, the up-sweep oh my nape of the neck, do I know you? You seem to be beckoning me.
"I entreat you to not leave me."
"It’s not going to work."
"I beseech you."
"No dice, darlin’. Not this time."
"I implore you."
"You’re running out of synonyms."
"I coax you."
"That won’t work."
"You intrigue me. Don’t leave me."
A memory pitter-patters in my head, around my neck, a lacy memory, a string of snowflakes that melts when it touches skin. I cannot hold onto you. I cannot hold you.

So I hold no one. None. But oh my, nape of the neck, I am in love. Multiple, many, mellifluous loves. Sweet, fuzzy, exposed. Please kiss me. Oh my. Oh oh oh. I’ve fallen in love by following you. And never finding you, too. Yet, you haven’t fallen at all, not even to me, not even on the ground.
Euphonious neck with your sea-salty beckoning silence, I could walk behind you and fall into the underworld by following you. Orpheus nape of the neck. Don’t stop. Don’t turn around.

"I think that, at least for me, part of what I feel the value of fairytales are is that they’re stories of survival. They’re stories about how to live through things; that at the end of everything you can still have a feast, and a dance, and a wedding, and that everything can be ok… I think that they are vastly important. They have been edited down over thousands of years to be the purest stories, the ones that are most human, that are about what it means to be human- what it means to be a woman, a child, a man and a hunter, a wolf, a girl in a red dress. If they had not been absolutely the most distilled essence of valuable storytelling, of the images that move us on a basic level, they would have been forgotten."

Catherynne M. Valente (via wordsandetcetera)


Women of the IRA, Alex Bowle, Northern Ireland, 1977.

Adele was going to fall in love with a schoolteacher, seduce her own father and watch her mother being guillotined; it was going to play ‘some tricks with history … But then it is a novel’.

the synopsis Angela Carter submitted on her planned novel about Jane Eyre’s stepdaughter

The core of the story is that he is less of the fairy tale prince and more of the beast. The wolf who watches, the moonlit voyeur. Un-clean shaven and pockets empty of good intentions. Her thighs are covered in beard burn—mother must never know. She doesn’t slice the world into good and evil, she’d rather eat the whole cake. He asks her to marry him. In bed, between the sheets, in her head, between the sleet of what she should do and what she wants to do and what she will do. He asks with his tongue, writing on her skin, her stomach. And below. Where winds blow and wolves howl and dark things are done that never asked to be named. Mother must never know.

She says yes. Because there is nothing else to say. That too, is at the core, that peach seed core she sucks on for hours after finishing the flesh of the fruit. And wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. He says You taste good and means it. But that doesn’t mean he loves you she thinks.

She doesn’t want or need or crave his love. She would have nothing to do with it anyways, except hoard it beneath her skin, dote upon it, feed and pet and nourish it. Until it decided to wander. If anything, she wants to eat his love. Really, his heart. That beating, bleeding core. She wants to feel his heart fill her hands, gush as she lifts it to her mouth. She takes him to her mouth. To her history. To her story. For her teeth to graze and tease.

They stretch in the gap tooth of the story, yawn between undisclosed brutality and civility and humility that just muddles everything up. They splash in the puddles, muddy their hems, their skin, the thin veil of quiet. They breath in. The whisper, the murmur, the hush hush. Among other onomatopoeias. Tangled tongues and touching limbs, she awakens not by true love’s kiss but by his hot breath as he sleeps. It leaves a warm, red mark on her skin. A little wet, a lot alive. Not branding, but reminding. And she never wants to forget. Forever after and never upon a time.

To remember, to know, she digs at the core. And her fingernails are rarely clean, her fingerprints rarely nowhere. He doesn’t follow her into the woods to corrupt her, he knows she can do that just fine on her own. He just wants to witness.

Come back to bed, Peach he growls. Come and let me see you.

Thomas Struth, Art Institute Of Chicago II, Chicago, 1990

'December' makes me think of bare bones spindly like trees, blackbeards and bloody chambers, sweatered affections that frost if left outside too long, lazy smiles in lieu of the sun, ornamental wishes that string themselves up around the home like holly and tinsel, like glass and mistletoe.

"Let it go, let it go. / And I’ll rise like the break of dawn. / Let it go, let it go / That perfect girl is gone / Here I stand, in the light of day / Let the storm rage on! / The cold never bothered me anyway."

"And oh, the oh my nape of the neck. The up-swept oh my nape of the neck. I could walk behind anyone and fall in love. Don’t stop. Don’t turn around."

Dorianne Laux, from “The Secret of Backs” (via fleurishes)

(It would be really lovely if I had someone who would run away with me. And touch my hair. And pick flowers for me. And buy me coffee or tea or books or sweets. Yes yes yes. Let’s lie in bed and scrape our knees and dream until watercolors paint the backs of our eyelids and then bleed onto the sheets.)

Is fall in love, drop out of college, learn to subsist on water and air, have a species named after me, and ruin my life."

The History of Love | Nicole Krauss (via lungsattachedbywires)