The Invisible Ropes Of Twilight Cling Gently To The New Dawn, The Gates Of Heaven Are Barred. “Exile

I have come to a conclusion, after mulling it over for a while, that happiness has been been cast off and melancholy embraced perhaps not because of the evil and dark being more beckoning, nor is it because of the naivety associated with joy, though perhaps this might be one, for effervescence is so often confused with gladness that it is no surprise that it is seen to be foolish, but because it has become now that stillness and silence are symbolic of melancholy, while happiness is characterised by permanent high-spirits. Contemplation and reflection are few things that bring inner tranquility, for many it is the source of peace. Thus for some any absence of continuous childlike behaviour becomes sadness and for the others any presence of natural laughter and to not always be lost in a maze of cluttered thoughts becomes immaturity. I’m somehow both of these people.

“No writing is wasted. Did you know that sourdough from San Francisco is leavened partly by a bacteria called lactobacillus sanfrancisensis? It is native to the soil there, and does not do well elsewhere. But any kitchen can become an ecosystem. If you bake a lot, your kitchen will become a happy home to wild yeasts, and all your bread will taste better. Even a failed loaf is not wasted. Likewise, cheese makers wash the dairy floor with whey. Tomato gardeners compost with rotten tomatoes. No writing is wasted: the words you can’t put in your book can wash the floor, live in the soil, lurk around in the air. They will make the next words better.”

— ERIN BOW

Finalities

My hands have grown tired of writing about you Though the scars long since have faded into skin Smooth, edge-less, no longer promising red, A mother's daughter through out and through in.

Sleep is less tiresome, and all my work once done Leaves me fiddling with spare hours at the table, Twisting them in and out of a ring that shines on My fourth finger - chipped from the old fable Where the kindest doves would nip down at the Lover who wore your shoes, and drive her out Barefoot into the night - where you only yesterday Curled up under, melting tears into silent clout.

But there, it is a fable other hands have written, An embrace where other shoulders found shelter, And many others yet found tranquilled lethe. Mine is not a story foretold, perhaps for the better.

It has been very long.

Perhaps the lack of a proper Farewell kept me from exiting the scene definitely, so here I am, properly clad in mourning white, clutching at a handkerchief and a bouquet of marigolds. Marigolds in our country are worn in the hair and as necklaces by the bride. Who am I being given away to? From where I stand, it looks like a pyre, where one is burnt with her dead lover. I began to write for you, dearest, and so I shall stop for you, for you are gone. Other fingers now are exploring the crook in your smile, the scar on your hip. Other hands hold yours as you gaze into the deathly moon on quiet summer nights. Other songs nest in your head, ones you and her share.

And here, here I am. Pinning myself to every chord you ever sang to me, but never will once again.

I shall not love again.

keep thinking about that richard siken interview where he's talking about simplifying the metaphor, by removing the "is" — and the moon, terrible. the distance between the object and the thing to which it is likened to falls away, it feels [it reads], smoother, unhindered by simplified vocabulary. and so, it becomes alive, breathing.

its the same way sally rooney has removed quotation marks, and her writing feels smoother from it, subtler, a more coherent story where there is no stepping in our out of characters. everything falls in line, the veil draws back: the distance between character/reader is removed and instead of having the feeling be cut up by speech marks – there is a greater intimacy. the boundary is gone. the feelings of the character no longer at a distance to yourself, the reader is immersed in the skin of the character. no longer a book away.

i see the same thing in the internets refusal to Capitalise. (realise how you just read that word differently? your internal tone of voice heightening at that C?) thats again, removing the distance [!], keeping a hold of that intimacy with the reader. cherishing that tender bond.

its interesting, because siken says he needs to rely on the reader to make the associative leap when the "is" is left out. the same is true for rooney, i think. the lack of quotation marks demands attention. with an unfocused an divided mind, the lack of speech marks can easily be more annoying than smooth, stopping the flow of which the text invites the reader into. the capitalization of words is a stop too, a poem with uneven syllables: an irregular heartbeat ruining the pulse of the rhythm.

comparative words, quotation marks, and capitalized words – they all stop the blood-flow of the text. disrupt the rhythm. cut the flow short. maybe im simply very sensitive to these things, maybe i think too much about literary devices, but i love this style of writing. this stripping down – this removal of boundary and convention. the moon, terrible [how incredible!!] more please <3

Nothing much, I know, just an old sunset.

I met an old centipede on the terrace today, slowly she crawled up to me. “Isn’t the sky beautiful today?” She remarks. I tilted my head forward and mumbled, “My aunt says she has seen finer ones, over Misty hilltops and pale dawns.”. She smiled, (I thought centipedes couldn’t smile?) “You’ll never find beauty or happiness in anything if you keep thinking there is something better.” Did she sound wistful? I don’t know. We sat there for a while, she crept near me and asked in a whisper, “Will you play something on that old guitar?” “Uh, sure.” I say and pick up my guitar and start strumming an old tune. I kept muting strings and tripping over notes. But as she showed no signs of noticing anything, I continued playing, until twilight gave way to the night sky and the music faded away in discord. “It was lovely”, she said. I raised an eyebrow. “It was lovely.” She repeated, as mosquitoes swarmed over my phone that had lit up at a notification from my math teacher.

petition for spotify to allow users to add notes to songs. like the violin solo at 3:43 is just <3

have you ever had a friend, like as in a normal friendship? ever?

*goes to the top of a cliff and and whispers to a bird which obviously doesn’t care, “It’s my birthday today” and is met with a blank stare and an indignant ruffle and is left with the words echoing emptily across the hillside*