blue ashes

sareh afshar: performance studies; habitual blanker / metapho[ly]rical meanderer [ig: minimamania]

[itsjustvaleska]

[blue-ashes]

"my business is [still] to always feel a little like a fool & speak of it” (erica jong)

[sinthematica]

Lacan used to say, ‘To love is to give what you haven’t got.’ Which means: to love is to recognize your lack and give it to the other, place it in the other. It’s not giving what you possess, goods and presents, it’s giving something else that you don’t possess, which goes beyond you. To do that you have to assume your lack, your ‘castration’ as Freud used to say. And that is essentially feminine. One only really loves from a feminine position. Loving feminises. That’s why love is always a bit comical in a man. But if he lets himself get intimidated by ridicule, then in actual fact he’s not very sure of his virility.

Jacques-Alain Miller on love (via sinthematica)

[kittenmeats]

"Rusalochka" (1976) - Vladimir Bychkov

[trashcanland-deactivated2018120]

[btwitsjulie]

I mark my territory with bite marks and dark red lipstick.

(via juliejesushatesyou666)

[injectti0nn]

doll parts, hole

[nomadmanifesto]

i love lipstick. i want to write an essay about the politics of lipstick. i like lipstick that’s deep, deep red. i like lipstick that’s purple, lipstick that’s black and dark for when i want to dress up my melancholy. i like sharing lipstick with sisters. and i laugh at boys that think i wear lipstick for them to notice, i laugh, lipstick is an art you can’t ever understand. from picking out a color, testing it on the inside of my wrist, pursing my lips during the application of it. i like when i kiss a baby and leave lipstick on their cheek, when you hug someone and leave lipstick on their shirt, when it gets on your teeth and you use your tongue to get it off, when you sleep in lipstick and wake up with it on your pillow case. in 1997 mama left for ethiopia to see her mama for the first time in 12 years. i was six and i cried the entire way home from the airport. and when we came home there on the kitchen table was the teacup mama had been drinking out of. at the bottom a sip of tea and black cardamom seeds. and there on the rim of the cup the lipstick imprint of my mama’s kiss.

[blue-ashes]

"u know i luv 2 sing all yr songs."

[fleurishes]

For us, eating and being eaten belong to the terrible secret of love. We love only the person we can eat. The person we hate we ‘can’t swallow.’ That one makes us vomit. Even our friends are inedible. If we were asked to dig into our friend’s flesh we would be disgusted. The person we love we dream only of eating. That is, we slide down that razor’s edge of ambivalence. The story of torment itself is a very beautiful one. Because loving is wanting and being able to eat up and yet to stop at the boundary. And there, at the tiniest beat between springing and stopping, in rushes fear. The spring is already in mid-air. The heart stops. The heart takes off again. Everything in love is oriented towards this absorption. At the same time real love is a don’t-touch, yet still an almost-touching. Tact itself: a phantom touching. Eat me up, my love, or else I’m going to eat you up. Fear of eating, fear of the edible, fear on the part of the one of them who feels loved, desired, who wants to be loved, desired, who desires to be desired, who knows there is no greater proof of love than the other’s appetite, who is dying to be eaten up, who says or doesn’t say, but who signifies: I beg you, eat me up. Want me down to the marrow. And yet manage it so as to keep me alive. But I often turn about or compromise, because I know that you won’t eat me up, in the end, and I urge you: bite me. Sign my death with your teeth.

Helene Cixous, “The Love of the Wolf” (via fleurishes) "i have time. please, devour me."

[blue-ashes]

the real demand of love: love me more than i, who has an unconscious, love myself; or else: love me as a mortal, love me to death, therefore as other than myself (je est un autre [rimbaud]).

jalal toufic (via blue-ashes)

[einheitstochter]

frida kahlo + vladimir mayakovsky

[thesoviette]

but i, from poetry's skies, plunge into communism, because without it i feel no love.

vladimir mayakovsky, home! (via thesoviette)

[dictionaryofobscuresorrows]

dead reckoning

n. to find yourself bothered by someone’s death more than you would have expected, as if you assumed they would always be part of the landscape, like a lighthouse you could pass by for years until the night it suddenly goes dark, leaving you with one less landmark to navigate by—still able to find your bearings, but feeling all that much more adrift.

[karaj]

stealing off facebook to put on tumblr. 

[jonidelarosa]

[frenchtwist]

how could i know you fit my body like a glove? you’re destroying me. you’re good for me. you’re destroying me. you’re good for me. i have time. please, devour me.

marguerite duras, hiroshima mon amour (via frenchtwist)

[tokintaoist]

The beauty and terror of the greatest of Sumerian goddesses comes through in this ancient statue. Inanna/Ishtar was at once lovely and terrible, seducing many great men and then killing them. Her unearthly white skin and glowing red eyes warn those who might answer her as she beckons with her right hand.