Indefinable Blue

[miracle-vine]

She possessed him in death in a way that she never had while he was alive. At least her memory of him was hers. Wholly hers. Savagely, fiercely, hers.

The God of Small Things (Arundhati Roy)

[reorientmag-deactivated20260710]

[Edward] Said emphasised a vital feature of raqs sharqi often overlooked by his contemporaries; simply put, that less is more. ‘As in bullfighting, the essence of the classic Arab belly dancer’s art is not how much, but how little the artist moves’, Said wrote, further adding that ‘only the novices and the deplorable Greek and American imitators go in for the appalling wiggling and jumping around that passes for “sexiness”’. Carioca did just the opposite. Recounting his experience watching her perform live as a young teenager, Said remembered that she ‘never jumped or bobbed her breasts, or went in for bumping and grinding’; instead, Carioca’s ‘grace and eloquence suggested something altogether classical and even monumental’.

You can read my full article on REORIENT

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Give me a chance to search for roads where I have never walked with you.

- Nizar Qabbani

[sarcolinedream-deactivated20181]

The light moves in the distance and I am air; I am softness at the will of your hands. Breathe in through the open window and remember, the light bends only if you ask it to. Like bodies. Like sunsets. Like the feeling of your lips on my tired bones. Now see the sky for what it is; see my heart for how it aches.

— I Am Air, Michelle Tudor

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does not my heat astound you and my light all by myself I am huge camellia glowing and coming and going, flush on flush I think I am going up, I think I may rise the beads of hot metal fly, and I, love, I Am pure acetylene virgin attended by roses by kisses, by cherubim by whatever these pink things mean. Not you, nor him nor him, nor him (my selves dissolving, old whore petticoats) To paradise.

Sylvia Plath

Fever 103 from ‘Ariel’

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I don’t know how many souls I have. I’ve changed at every moment. I always feel like a stranger. I’ve never seen or found myself. From being so much, I have only soul. A man who has soul has no calm. A man who sees is just what he sees. A man who feels is not who he is. Attentive to what I am and see, I become them and stop being I. Each of my dreams and each desire Belongs to whoever had it, not me. I am my own landscape, I watch myself journey - Various, mobile, and alone. Here where I am I can’t feel myself. That’s why I read, as a stranger, My being as if it were pages. Not knowing what will come And forgetting what has passed, I note in the margin of my reading What I thought I felt. Rereading, I wonder: “Was that me?” God knows, because he wrote it.

Fernando Pessoa

Accurate would underestimate how much this poem describes the truth I’ve known but could not assemble to express.

[uutpoetry]

The Digital Solar Flare Revolution Archives

Standing up for what you believe in could be a wavy line that cuts through the sound of accelarating cars dirty windows and toppled towers of tissue boxes.

Corruption has specific look that you can recognize: clopping parents renewing their vows, progress that only gets worse, salmon leaving textual clues.

Get ready for a century with lots of jumping around between texts and shit. Lots of typos. Lots of holding of breath, which is a way of wasting your life.

Thank you for your excellent poems. I have published two already and will publish more. I will make you a delicious soup to annihilate that other world in your head where a train rolls by slowly and you are somehow touching it.

The Revolution will be fueled by coffee and Bach.

Do not pin this to your Pinterest. Do not yak it. Standing up for what you believe in could be a wavy line.

art by hheininge

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The legend, Um kalthoum.

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Anna in ‘Le Petit Soldat’ 1960 - by French filmmaker and writer Jean Godard

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I clung to the wrong star, a black star. All my sight, all my love corrupt by one piercing light, a mortal light, an illusion.

Words by Dina Lobo 

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Nothing is stranger or more ticklish than a relationship between people who know each other only by sight, who meet and observe each other daily- no hourly- and are nevertheless compelled to keep up the pose of an indifferent stranger, neither greeting nor addressing each other out of etiquette or their own whim. Between them there exists a disquiet, a strained curiosity, the hysteria of an unsatisfied unnaturally repressed need for recognition and exchange of thoughts.

From Death In Venice by: Thomas Mann

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Dance, be silent and taste my movement. (Credits to Erica Guy)

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What a shame. To allow man to become your light, for man comes from the stars and returns back to the stars. Man’s light knows no eternity. So for that, our love ends. Every light ends, So come back to me, oh you simple stars. Come back so that I can live eternally.

Words by Dina Lobo (indefinableblues.tumblr.com)

[vintageindia]

[indefinableblues]

(via serpent-goddess, vintageindia)