buddy holly wears big glasses

[gambleitaway-blog]

Resolution

WRITE WRITE WRITE WRITE WRITE 

[gambleitaway-blog]

I’m back!

Hello, people who follow this blog!  I’m not sure the last time I posted, but it’s certainly been a long time.  So many changes have happened since I was last on tumblr!  Here are some updates:

1. I’ve started a career I love: teaching!  I’m with 3rd graders all day, and they’re pretty incredible.  At this age, they’re beginning to become intellectually curious and pose pretty demanding questions about how the world works.  But they’re still sweet and draw me pictures of pandas and space ships.  Also, they say some pretty hilarious things.  Example:

Me: I love Jason Mraz!  He was one of my favorite musicians growing up. Student: When, like in the ‘50′s?

I am 25.  

They are also astounded by the fact that I am unmarried.  Time and age to them is mind boggling.

2. I have found a man whom I love very deeply.  I’ll call him “C.”  I have never known someone who truly “balances” me the way C does.  He is truly lovely. It’s exciting.

NOW! Back to my regular programming of the emotional poems/quotes/art that keep me sane in this new child-infested, heart-complicated, magnificently messy life of mine.

[whatmountains]

Hey I still love this poem more than just about anything. So that’s the same.

[kdecember-deactivated20161201]

Frank O’Hara

[mirnah]

[bookowlnews]

“What the public wants is the image of passion, not passion itself.”

R. Barthes (via jujutsu-with-zizek)

[hoppip]

[zhenshchina]

Holy fuck.  These are the craziest gifs I’ve ever seen. Apparently they are from the work of Jan Švankmajer. Surrealism, man.  What a trip.

[oxrudlem-deactivated20170729]

Looks like the alien rebels from The X-Files

[youreyesblazeout]

You lay next to me, forming alphabet letters with your arms and legs as you toss and turn.

Even in your sleep, your body calls for mine to hold you down and finish the story.

- Peregrine

[asianundergroundmusics]

Yellow Fang - Unreal  ★★★  from  Thailand

[andlohespoke]

Rolling Sun, by James Galvin I bear a ghost to the lost Like an ant carrying a butterfly. I think the world of ashes. I think the world of sky. Velocities and trestletrees Will take you To a paradise of suffering. One apocalypse deserves another, no? The bonds are binding. Inertia cleaves. No frills. Kiss me.

[stringhorizon-blog]

You cannot hide the soil coating your fingernails and undersides. Your feet are rooted, but not nearly as deep as her coffin. “She lived a good life,” you’ll hear them say and it will shake you down until your wrists soften

like the silk of her hair. You wonder if you can still see beauty, if she will always be this ghost etched only for a moment as an image within a thought within a whisper. Your wrists soften as you remember

shared closets bursting with shared clutter, now grown thick with a dust of lost eyelashes so deep your stomach fills only for a moment. You wonder if you can keep your promise to the clouds that you won’t be bitter, but their shame is bright

with the silk of her hair. Even though hearts are denser and distance is louder and life is longer, your roots are not as deep as her coffin. You do not hide the soil coating your fingernails while your wrists soften and shake you down and your

“She lived a good life,” comes and goes.

[oceanlibra]

I don’t wanna be your friend, I wanna kiss your neck.

Fallingforyou / The 1975 (via perfect)

[imposteurs]

I. Identify your terror. II. Weigh it. III. Belittle it.

Make passive remarks about your terror’s strange diction. Note its awkward gait and asymmetry. Talk at length about golden ratios and forget the point. Do not apologize.

Let terror believe, for a moment, that you’re laughing with it, not at it. Invite terror closer. First ask then demand its secrets and more importantly its shames.

Smile still; smile still; keep smiling. Graduate too quickly to blatant mockery.

Note: Refrain from sarcasm. Your terror has convinced itself its fluency in sarcasm is both its greatest weapon and its inevitable undoing.

Do not feed the fictions.

IV. Try, maybe, telling your terror that people do not laugh at its jokes not because they don’t understand sarcasm, but because terror’s sense of humor sucks.

V. Figure out what terror loves.

[gambleitaway-blog]

imposteurs:

(Untoward Magazine: 4 Poems)

[humansofnewyork]

"There are two books in America: one for the poor and one for the rich. The poor person does a crime, and gets 40 years. A rich person gets a slap on the wrist for the same crime. They say that the poor person doesn’t want to work and the poor person just wants a handout. Well I picked cotton until I was thirteen, left Alabama and got my education in the streets of New York. I drove a long distance truck all my life and never once drew welfare, never once took food stamps either. I sent four kids to college. But they say all poor people do is sit around with a quart of beer. Look in this bag next to me. I’ve got three things in this bag next to me: a Red Bull, a Pepsi, and Draino, because my drain is clogged. But you see, even if I do everything right, I still have to play by the poor book.”

[alypon]

Don’t bend; don’t water it down; don’t try to make it logical; don’t edit your own soul according to the fashion. Rather, follow your most intense obsessions mercilessly.

Franz Kafka (via stemdeath)

[stringhorizon-blog]

i want to fly with the telephone signal. i never imagined i’d need to see you just to be sure that your voice has a tongue, that your tongue flits and dances behind lips shaping words. teeth in your smile, shining in the light and all that.

i took a walk in the park with an old friend of mine who doesn't know you. we drank a couple of Cokes, split a joint between us, and i told her one of your stories as if i’d read it on CNN. sometimes i have to pretend that i don’t know you either.

face down in the dirt, your boots torn off your feet, arms asleep. i want to have been with you. i want to feel that distant exhaustion in my muscles, watch the same film reel behind my eyes so that you could look at me and i’d understand and you would never have to explain the smell of sun-baked blood when you taste it on your lips.

i need to tell you that i didn’t turn on the TV for five months, but i’ve started watching the news now, watching with purpose. i prefer the eleven o’clock because it helps me sleep when i don’t hear your name. and now, before i go to bed, i pray to God. news then God, news then God, every damn night.

i need to tell you that i’m not sure your eyes will be the same light hazel they've always been. i’m not sure about the curls at the nape of your neck or the smell of your chest like a new Hanes t-shirt and coffee grounds.

so today, in my fog of nine-to-three steering and sweater-layered baggage, i find myself wondering how to hug you tight enough to know who exactly came back from your trip.

[gambleitaway-blog]

"I believe that words are strong, that they can overwhelm what we fear when fear sometimes seems more awful than life is good."