my hands, learning softness

Writer and Filmmaker. Queer. She/Her. This is my writing archive. Posted in descending order, from recent to ancient. Scroll down at your own risk. Picture from google, full credit to artist

[devilsskettle]

You must be the loneliest girl I’ve ever seen. 

Saint Maud (2019) / Edward Hopper 

[papenathys]

- Lyudmilla Ignatenko, the wife of deceased firefighter Vasily Ignatenko, Voices from Chernobyl, by Svetlana Alexeivich (transl. Keith Gessen)

[infected]

Miguel Carbonell Selva (1854-1896) - Death of Sappho, 1881

[eroscestlavie]

Claude Monet’s home in Giverny 

[rabbitinthemeadow]

This hallowed stillness // Part 15

[saintsebastiensbf]

Anis Mojgani, “Here I am,” Songs from Under the River

Silas Denver Melvin, Love as an Act of Merciful Conquer

I won’t last. Memory is sweet. Even when it is painful, memory is sweet.

Li-Young Lee, Mnemonic

Alice Notley, In The Pines

Marina Tsvetaeva

Elle Emerson, Regarding the Röttgen Pietà

Tony Kushner, Angels in America

Mary Oliver, Devotions

Fariha Róisín, How to Cure a Ghost

Suzanne Rivecca, Ugly, Bitter and True

Fariha Róisín, How to Cure a Ghost

repetition in poetry // part ii

(part i)

[weusedtobegiants]

MY MOTHER HAD TO SEVER some part of herself to let me go. I have felt the wound ever since.

Jeanette Winterson, from Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal

[tat-art]

“I usually take a walk after breakfast, write for three hours, have lunch and read in the afternoon. Demons don’t like fresh air - they prefer it if you stay in bed with cold feet; for a person who is as chaotic as me, who struggles to be in control, it is an absolute necessity to follow these rules and routines. If I let myself go, nothing will get done.”

— Ingmar Bergman, from an interview published in “The Guardian”, dated 10 April 2004. 

[snailhearted]

oda iselin

[quo-usque-tandem]

Precarious by Ekua Holmes

[quo-usque-tandem]

A Neglected Corner of the Wheatfield by William Trost Richards

[littlestpersimmon]

my mom’s childhood town

[loumargi]

falling star, 1884 by witold pruszkowski

[flohrativity]

Feb 2022

This time last year, I stopped writing a film. Diagnosed it as overworked. Prescribed myself space. Unsure if I needed space from my words or myself.

Picked it up yesterday. One year since. The words were cathartic then, poisonous now. I’m astounded at the depth of my own fury. Alphabets soaked in vitriol, waiting for a match. The words are looking back at me from the paper. they are defiant. They are my words. I remember writing them. This is my handwriting. But the words and I - we do not understand each other anymore.

Will have to delete them. Start over again. It is harder than I thought it would be. Never not been angry, so never realised letting go of anger is the ultimate act of destruction. now, will have to hold myself tenderly. This is also a new experience. I have never known softness. my hands will learn how to be kind. this will be the year for the real thing.

[libbyframe]

More flowers

[catonhottinroof-deactivated2023]

Hans Hilsøe (1871 - 1942) 

An interior with a woman sitting on a sofa. The sunlight is reflected on the wall

[flohrativity]

2022, February

trembling, I dare to exist, imperfect.