Forever Untitled @counterfeitmoon - Tumblr Blog

In late winter 1934, to hasten coming of spring, Sylvia Bataille lay down in the snow in Bourg-d'Oisans with her shirt off. The warmth of her body melted a thin layer of the snow, which despite this, re-froze almost immediately, creating an icy-layer impression in the snow, an indentation, a mold from which her absence would then be cast once the silliness of this act enjoyed its moment. Sylvia then got up to laugh it off and continued along''

liminally-spaced

Last Day on Earth - Story I wrote last summer

You live inside this cup. If I finish my drink, for the next hour of this drab party, I will be whole. For you will be inside me, and you are my world.

That is until you vomit out every last bit of liquid inside you at ripe dawn, looking down at remnants of your past lovers laid down in chunks, like a libation gone wrong. Black coffee with a spoonful of cinnamon stirred 5 times counterclockwise is supposed to undo bad nights, but these rituals are feeling more and more like habit and therefore more and more profane.

The Flat Earth Society meeting is in a couple of hours, but you think you’ll skip it. Today the Earth feels round, like everything you know could slip into a terrifying perpetuity. The hangover blues… last night sure does come back to bite you in the ass.

You decide to go to the Lake, the Lake will cure you, you think. You call in sick; the mattress store has been busy the past few weeks and you need a day off from your sleazy boss breathing down your neck, something about poor salesmanship and the importance of “casual conversation” with customers.

The walk to the bus stop is sparse and boring. You understand the world to be divided up into specific zones, and right now, you’re walking along what you call ‘The Wastes’, a landscape invaded with miles of noxious grass that has choked out any chance for something else to grow. It leaves a bad, sinister taste in your mouth but maybe that’s just the hangover. Sun-bleached pavement warms your feet through the thin soles of your rubber shoes, and the clement and clean air makes no impression on you.

You think of a film that ex #3 showed you, about a girl determined to remain a vagabond until her ultimate death. You always knew that she, that is ex #3, was beyond you; she was smart and willful and pompous in a way that you initially found enticing, but you quickly realized you lacked the enduring interest to keep seeing her. Anyway, you try to identify with the vagabond, but there’s nothing admirable or interesting about your walk to the bus. No money, no cellphone, you look so down on your luck that you hope the bus driver accepts you out of pure heart. And he does; he must subscribe to Universal Love, you think.

The Lake is edenic. Its surrounding vegetation looks like it was coloured with fluorescent glitter crayons and the water itself is teeming with prosperous life, despite there being very little of it left on Earth. You’ve always told yourself that the Lake is the bellybutton of the universe; a sign of birth and creation, a great chain of progeny that gives the world a certain order and confidence you crave. You imagine it filled with holy algae water that you could bathe in, surely then you’d stay clean. You’re naggingly dehydrated and wish you could drink the Lake up, but then of course, you’d be draining the planet of its life essence, so you’ve told yourself.

The Lake’s serenity invites contemplation and today the question that circulates your mind is: “Is there really such a thing as a point of no return?”

But this is soon interrupted by a piercing sensation on your shoulder. You turn around and there she stands, with red eyes whose gaze seems to hit the back of your skull.

She introduces herself as the Puppet Princess of Primordial Soup and apologizes for startling you. Her mouth moves but you get the sense that she is communicating to you by other, non-corporeal means. She invites you to play a game of tag. Her resting smirk is hard to resist, it reminds you of impish ex #1 who used to tease that “you can look but cannot touch”. Sure, why the hell not. You begin chasing PPP (as you’ve so cleverly dubbed her in your head) in circles around the lake, your fingertips just grazing the tips of her white-blue hair. She appears to be made of ice but not at all stiff in her motions. You both run faster and faster until the Lake seems to spiral downwards away from you and you are no longer on solid ground.

As you catch your breath amidst the airglow of the stratosphere, PPP explains to you that she was appointed to rescue lost souls who have run out of Good Days on Earth. You didn’t know you needed rescuing but it feels good to surrender to something bigger than yourself. You see the Earth in its spheric totality with a fat red ribbon tied around it like a gift. Your heart swells and your eyes fill with tears at its magnificence. This is all happening so fast. You can see the convention centre way down beneath you, the guys at the Flat Earth society must be starting their meeting right about now. You wish you could tell them that they can stop speculating… the Answer has arrived.

You also wish you could have said a proper goodbye. I mean, they were your buddies after all, and you have a feeling that camaraderie doesn’t exist the same way where you’re going… But it doesn’t really matter anymore, PPP assures you. Nothing really does… those girls, those parties, your jerk of a boss, your CD collection — it was nothing other than to mark the passing of time.

During your ascent, vignettes of seemingly random memories replay in your mind as if you were channel surfing. The neighbour’s dog yelling at you through the wire fence, always angry at everything and equally nothing. The kids who sold used kitchenware up and down the block. Lyrics to Neil Young’s “Albuquerque”. Riding around on dirt bikes with ex #2 who was just superb and the person you probably loved the most in this life... The night you fought and she jumped out of your moving car, back when you could afford one. The day she buzzed your hair and nipped your ear, and the scab that lasted all summer.

But you feel no nostalgia or remorse at these memories; you’re no longer a part of this world.

Look! There’s mom and dad in suburban bliss! You haven’t spoken to each other in years but you wish you could tell them that everything worked out, they need not worry any longer. You try to wave from up above but realize you have no arms — actually, no form at all. It’s then that you see your supine body on the grass by the Lake like a raisin, all dehydrated and contorted. Good fucking riddance.

gooch333

Marianne Faithfull on the set of The Girl On A Motorcycle, 1967

To have sex and play in the jaws of a crocodile

collage inspired by ecosexuality and val plumwood

on the Beach everything looks the same, tinted with both the colour of hardcore yearning and the colour of blithe indifference. what you're searching for though, is a colour so rare the last time you saw it was laying in your mother's bed, age 6, you shut your eyes so tight you see ornamental patterns you interpret as some kind of secret code. it's the interpretation that matters. and when you open your eyes? everything is the colour of revealed secrets.

as far as you can see, miniature palm trees are organized into neat rows and columns, probably farmed, and that cold-hearted artificiality hits you to your core. it all looks so refrigerated. oh fuck - something sinister is bubbling up, like black coagulated petroleum from an oil well. you ignore it, it's time to go down to the water. you hear the music you're supposed to hear on the Beach. but the cliché is kind of nice, so you soak it up. ok now you're really in it. the sand is warming you in a way that feels like you're cooking from the inside instead of blowtorched like a salmon. thank god.

a golden surfer comes up and asks if you want to share his joint, he's fine as hell and you're tempted, but you deny, you don't get high you tell him.

but that's only partially true, isn't it? you're always trying to meditate and write and move in a way that 'raises your consciousness', maybe to mimic that glimmer of universal-truth you witnessed at age 6. "remember the patterns" you mutter to yourself. fuck did I just say that out loud? this guy must think I'm a total nut case. whatever, this place is full of hippie chics anyways. i stand up, dust off, and run down the sand in a way that i hope exudes effortless cool, like a girl who's just been struck with the primordial desire to 'splash around'. yes, facing the infinite horizon of white sun, the salty water sure feels good. i can hear the voices of everyone i've ever met chanting: "the ocean heals".

i turn around in slow motion to flash my surfer a hollywood smile.

he's not there. fuck - wait, oh my god no one's here. the beach is totally desolate except for a stray dog barking at me like a warning. fear. nope. something stranger. the ocean retreats but i can't move, the dog rolls his eyes at me and makes a break for the mainland, it’s everyone for themselves now i guess. i see him shrink and then disappear into the field of miniature palms.

behind me is a wave so big it seems to touch neptune. fuck. everything is purple under water. there's nothing i can do but ride this one out or drown. it's always live or die, isn't it? the eternal question... jesus, what on earth am i getting myself into?

the wave is merciful and releases me to the shore and - ok, i can breathe. i do. everyone's back on the sand gleaming and the whole world smells like the all-natural tanning oil sold up and down the Beach. it’s serene. there's no dog and my surfer is waiting for me with a smile and a coconut. i accept and forget all about the search for rare colours. it feels good to have a friend.

#poem #original poem #creative writing #beach

poem i wrote and memorized to pass the time at my 10h shift

1 summer, 2 summer, red-hot summer, Blues summer

Summer the heaven-sent babe that makes things happen,

She dazzles and charms and blushes

Moves mountains and lakes and hearts and fates

Silver-tongued summer, It is for you that I wait

#original poem

Like a girl racing through the woods

While we enjoyed the book-inspired ice cream flavors the good people at HuffPo Books put together for National Ice Cream Month, it got us po

<3 forever favourite

Poem

Acutely aware that the pain in my neck is only hiding behind a thin veil of paracetamol, I am suddenly struck with the strange feeling that I am protecting someone, that I too could be deployed as medicine

From his moldy, windowless basement, the broken-hearted man imagines blazing life in ballerinas and missed connections in traffic

The sick woman remembers glimpses of tranquility. Rain boots in the marsh. Stick in hand as a makeshift trekking pole. Overalls. High Park. Autumn. Age 5.

The cosmo of suffering refracts into ours by way of their dreams and memories, you, a mere bandage and me, anesthetic

Though only refractions, the clang of swords, of blood and wrath, makes its way into in every symphony, honk of a car, and splash of a puddle and unconsciously, we too begin to perform their Danse Macabre

Yet how can it be that the glass spheres that hang from my window cast rainbows on my wall?

Lately its quiet and I can occasionally feel the wind on my cheek from the white wing flapping beside me

Maybe it's the colossal owl who visited my window three nights ago who seemed to glow from within

Could my dreamer have died leaving me to live free?

No longer the Puppet Princess of Primordial soup...

#original poem #dream poem

My Fish Friend

Elizabeth Bishop's "The Fish" and Sylvia Plath's "Mirror" have long-instilled in me a great love for fish imagery in writing. I thought I'd give it a go.

I hated him for his greyness, his large gaping mouth at my Wayward Ways (his waterlogged body could never comprehend the way I Walked)

Do you know I eat you raw? I thought

I liked him for his inconspicuousness, a great talent for moving to and from No Man's Waters as he pleased

"Come see this Disappearing Act!" the magician's assistant proclaims as he loses himself in a sea of those akin to himself

I could never achieve such anonymity in school

I loved him for trying to teach me to swim in the free, flowing sea, sleek and silver (you see, he was no longer that grey, dull thing when leading, my silver fish)

Whereas me? My locks a tangled mess when rising to the surface for I have no smooth sailing scales to guide me through the wetness

I reflect fondly on my fish friend but it could never work

I couldn't master swimming downstream nor upstream so it is from here that I write you, from the very bottom where everything is still

Say a prayer for him if he appears on your plate

You'll recognize him, he was blue inside

#poem #original poem #fish #fish poem

Harry Clarke at the National Museum of Ireland

Currently obsessed with Harry Clarke’s stained glass piece of a Midsummer’s Night Dream “Titania and Bottom” (1922). Despite it being a mere 7 x 11 inches, I feel as though I can step into its entire world

Simone Weil perfectly articulates the meditative, masochistic, and mystic satisfaction of waiting as an end in itself, something I have long been feeling

Some doodles this past December 🌀

r-is-for-raven

“I learned that just beneath the surface there’s another world, and still different worlds as you dig deeper. I knew it as a kid, but I couldn’t find the proof. It was just a feeling. There is goodness in blue skies and flowers, but another force - a wild pain and decay - also accompanies everything.”

— David Lynch

publicdomainreview

A woman grieves for her beloved prince.

From the titular story in East of the Sun and West of the Moon, a collection of Norwegian folk stories fantastically illustrated by Kay Nielsen in 1914. More here: https://publicdomainreview.org/collection/east-of-the-sun-and-west-of-the-moon-illustrated-by-kay-nielsen-1922-edition

nobrashfestivity

Nan Goldin Heart-Shaped Bruise, New York City 1980

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