Fig Tree Blues

I'm going to make every little corner of my life into a work of art

[figtreeblues]

[figtreeblues]

If I make enough shit, will some of it eventually be ok? Is that how it works??

[alibis-not-needed-anymore]

The meaning of life is just to be alive. It is so plain and so obvious and so simple. And yet, everybody rushes around in a great panic as if it were necessary to achieve something beyond themselves.

Alan Watts (via alibis-not-needed-anymore)

[figtreeblues]

life update, October 2017

-I’m a senior in college! I graduate in the spring, despite being terrified I wouldn’t make it this far

-I still live in a dorm bc it’s free

-I broke up with my first real boyfriend of two years. who knew that breakups hurt like hell?

-I have a hard time making new friends, but I have a small group of people that I love

-I’m very fearful of what my life will be after I graduate, because I like to have a plan but it’s too early for me to have a real plan yet. but I wonder about what my life will be like all the time

[figtreeblues]

i wrote this a very long time ago

Sometimes I fear that I will never feel certain things again. I fear that I will never watch the sun rise through an east facing window, I worry that I will never kiss anyone else in that park on Michigan. I fear this so much that I always try to soak up as much of a moment when I am in it, and when I’m in a place where I’m not feeling anything, I can listen to a certain song or smell a certain candle and close my eyes, and I’m right back where I was, and I never have to leave

[muymuybueno]

[figtreeblues]

I assign myself no rank or any limit, and such an attitude is very much against the trend of the times. But my world has become one of infinite possibilities.

Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man

[figtreeblues]

parties

I lay myself in the sink while they talk about god

in the yard with the drunk boy lying in the grass,

the drunk girl locking herself in the bathroom

and the music just barely too loud.

I slip into the drain when the water gives way. tenderly

fall into the pipes, where no one can see me,

I think I’m reborn.

and it takes my breath away.

[heartial]

su·sur·rus

/so͝oˈsərəs/

noun whispering, murmuring, or rustling. 

[figtreeblues]

run on ii

i want to color in an ink stain blot with the thoughts of you, the endless monologues that are a secret dialogue, the meeting place of every you, the infinite almosts, the rotten figs that are sulking at my feet

[figtreeblues]

August Heat

the heat brings the rain, and the rain kills the heat and the rain brings the mud. I track it in on my shoes.

the worms in the dirt drown, and the worms on the sidewalk burn and the birds stay hungry.

the worm sizzles on the sidewalk, I step on the worm and track it in.

[figtreeblues]

fall/winter nights

honestly just check out all the Soirée de Poche videos, they’re all magical

[figtreeblues]

wine stains my teeth red, coats my mouth blue. I do not like wine. I float next

                to

                     you

[figtreeblues]

look at these!!

these are the first poems of his that pop up on Google but they are so good, so small and so full of feeling

[figtreeblues]

happy new years. I have discovered aram saroyan, and I think I'm in love

[figtreeblues]

my friend, you left a year ago. You still come to mind often, though I don't mention it anymore. I still listen to your favorite band, when I'm alone I find myself singing the song your sister sang at your funeral. I think about where you are now, and I hope you aren't too lonely. I think of you often, and I know I'm not the only one. You are not gone from our minds.

[nosebleedclub]

“The Heaven of Animals” by James Dickey

Here they are. The soft eyes open.   If they have lived in a wood It is a wood. If they have lived on plains It is grass rolling Under their feet forever.

Having no souls, they have come,   Anyway, beyond their knowing.   Their instincts wholly bloom   And they rise. The soft eyes open.

To match them, the landscape flowers,   Outdoing, desperately Outdoing what is required: The richest wood, The deepest field.

For some of these, It could not be the place It is, without blood. These hunt, as they have done, But with claws and teeth grown perfect,

More deadly than they can believe.   They stalk more silently, And crouch on the limbs of trees,   And their descent Upon the bright backs of their prey

May take years In a sovereign floating of joy.   And those that are hunted   Know this as their life, Their reward: to walk

Under such trees in full knowledge   Of what is in glory above them,   And to feel no fear, But acceptance, compliance.   Fulfilling themselves without pain

At the cycle’s center, They tremble, they walk   Under the tree, They fall, they are torn,   They rise, they walk again.