we're all afraid of something.

[sparkamovement-blog-blog]

What men mean when they talk about their “crazy” ex-girlfriend is often that she was someone who cried a lot, or texted too often, or had an eating disorder, or wanted too much/too little sex, or generally felt anything beyond the realm of emotionally undemanding agreement. That does not make these women crazy. That makes those women human beings, who have flaws, and emotional weak spots. However, deciding that any behavior that he does not like must be insane– well, that does make a man a jerk. And when men do this on a regular basis, remember that, if you are a woman, you are not the exception. You are not so cool and fabulous and levelheaded that they will totally get where you are coming from when you show emotions other than “pleasant agreement.” When men say “most women are crazy, but not you, you’re so cool” the subtext is not, “I love you, be the mother to my children.” The subtext is “do not step out of line, here.” If you get close enough to the men who say things like this, eventually, you will do something that they do not find pleasant. They will decide you are crazy, because this is something they have already decided about women in general.

Lady, You Really Aren’t “Crazy”  (via chromefoam)

[deepcoldsea]

Someday I'll wake and hardly think of you You'll be some abstract deity, a myth - Say Daphne, if you knew her as a tree. Don't think I won't be grateful. I will be. We'd shuck the oysters, cool them off with lime, Spice them with Tabasco, and then scoop them up, Who thought we were in Paradise. We were not. Three couples and three singles shared that house For two weeks in September. Wellfleet stayed Remarkable that fall. And so did we. Confessions, confidences kept us up Half the night, the dawn birds found us still Dead tired, clenched on the emotional, Which led to two divorces later on, Recriminations, torn-up loyalties, The dreariness of things gone wrong for good. Yet who could forget those wet, bucolic rides, Drunk dances on the beach, the bonfires, The sandy lobsters not quite fit to eat? Well, there were other falls to come as bad, But I still see us on a screened-in porch, Dumbly determined to discover when The tide turned and the bay sank back in mud. We'd watch it carefully, hour after hour, But somehow never could decide just when The miracle occured. Someone would run Into the marshes yelling. "Where's the shore?" We hardly see each other anymore.

Shorelines - Howard Moss

[booksvscigarettes]

[3amstories]

[aubade]

To sit on a hotel balcony in Jerusalem and to write: ‘Sweetly pass the days from desert to sea.’ And to write: ‘Tears dry quickly here. This blot is a tear that made the ink run.’ That’s how they used to write in the last century. ‘I have drawn a little circle around it.’ Time passes, as when someone’s on the phone laughing or crying far away from me: whatever I hear, I can’t see; what I see, I don’t hear. We weren’t careful when we said ‘Next year’ or ‘A month ago.’ Those words are like broken glass: you can hurt yourself with them, even slash an artery, if that’s what you’re like. But you were beautiful as the commentary on an ancient text. The surplus of women in you distant country brought you to me, but another law of probability has taken you away again. To live is to build a ship and a harbor at the same time. And to finish the harbor long after the ship has gone down. And to conclude: I remember only that it was foggy. And if that’s the way you remember— what do you remember?

Yehuda Amichai, “A Letter” (via aubade)

[pickypicnic]

[huong1952]

I went inside my heart to see how it was. Something there makes me hear the whole world weeping.

Rumi. Translator: Coleman Barks (via clavicola)

[deepcoldsea]

The Dancing Plague (or Dance Epidemic) of 1518 was a case of dancing mania that occurred in Strasbourg, Alsace (then part of the Holy Roman Empire) in July 1518. Over the period of about one month, around 400 dancers took to dancing for days without rest. Some of the people died from heart attack, stroke, or exhaustion.

[deepcoldsea]

[deepcoldsea]

i hate it when hitler steals my nutella.

[deepcoldsea]

i don't like the feeling i get when i think that you might have been with someone else when we weren't talking. it feels horrible. end of the world i'm gonna be sick i hate you. it's disgusting i don't want to feel like this about anyone.

[cavetocanvas]

Gertrude Käsebier, The Bat, 1902, printed 1904

[picklesandwine]

We’re told that to be great is to be bold, to be happy is to be sociable. We see ourselves as a nation of extroverts, which means we’ve lost sight of who we really are.

It makes sense that so many introverts hide even from themselves. We live with a value system that I call the Extrovert Ideal - the omnipresent belief that the ideal self is gregarious, alpha, and comfortable in the spotlight. The archetypal extrovert prefers action to contemplation, risk-taking to heed-taking, certainty to doubt. He favors quick decisions, even at the risk of being wrong. She works well in teams and so socializes in groups. We like to think that we value individuality, but all too often we admire one type of individual - the kind who’s comfortable “putting himself out there.”

Introversion - along with its cousins sensitivity, seriousness, and shyness - is now a second-class personality trait, somewhere between a disappointment and a pathology. Introverts living under the Extrovert Ideal are like women in a man’s world, discounted because of a trait that goes to the core of who they are. Extroversion is an enormously appealing personality style, but we’ve turned it into an oppressive standard to which most of us feel we must conform.

- Susan Cain, Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking

[explodingdog]

[deepcoldsea]

we saw each other for the first time in a month. we fucked. i think it was a mistake.

[amajor7-deactivated20210823]

[deepcoldsea]