Inveracious

Images. Words. (Some my own and others more.)

[inveracious]

Closing this account down because I have a few too many blogs and social media accounts in my life.

I'll be posting only on my main Tumblr now.

e.g. & miscellanae

This? This is a bit of anything and some of everything. Human evolution, primatology, anthropology,...

[egmisc]

“(What an odd thing a diary is: the things you omit are more important than those you put in.)”

Simone de Beauvoir, The Woman Destroyed (via noellejt)

[inveracious]

2007. Noelle Tankard.

[inveracious]

[inveracious]

[ex0skeletal]

Lemminkäinen’s Mother by Akseli Gallen-Kallela Based on the Finnish national epic Kalevala, the painting depicts a man who, in order to win the hand of the woman he wants to marry, is tasked with killing the swan that guards the underworld. He’s killed and cut into pieces, then tossed into the river. His mother collects the pieces of her son’s body and sews them together. In this painting, she is shown waiting for a bee, a messenger of the gods, to bring her honey to bring her son to life again. Thanks to lovemelikeareptile who told me the story behind this piece!

[xnksenya]

“Dead light”. My mind is already somewhere in the autumn, full of accumulated moods I lack eloquence to put into words. My favourite time of the year, can’t help it influencing my work and subject matter.

[meanwhilepoetry]

1. I was still holding onto a war the size of Troy in my arms, and I never quite let it go. 2. You hated the way you glimpsed Artemis once too often in my eyes, my hair, my manner. 3. We tricked each other into thinking we were Gods when we were both only human. 4. We ruined each other and called it love. 5. We played hide and seek with our loyalties one too many times. 6. You wanted Aphrodite and I was too much like Artemis. 7. One of us had a softer heart than the other. 8. We took turns being the victim and the abuser. 9. You kept planting flowers of hope inside me but then kept destroying them in your anger. 10. I wore my temper like Persephone and always caused a small natural disaster. 11. …and I always left you alone in the aftermath to pick up the pieces. 12. We both walked into this thinking the other could heal us. 13. I am beautiful broken but you thought fixing me would make me prettier. 14. You chose me when you saw my hunger. My hunger never left us, no matter how much you fed me love. 15. We wanted to be the River Styx to each other, hoping to give each other invulnerability, but all we became was Acheron, the river of woe. 16. You loved me in a language I never took the time to learn. 17. We weren’t meant to drag each other out of our own wreckage, yet we did it over and over again. 18. Every woman around you began to look like Medusa to me due to my insecurity. 19. Some loves were not planted in the right soil to grow. 20. I carried too much of my mother and grandmother’s anxiety in my heart and you carried too much of your father and grandfather’s impatience in your spirit. 21. We turned our relationship into a burden we held on our shoulders the way Atlas holds the world. 22. You wanted glory the way Achilles craved it before he left for Troy. 23. We both tasted once too often of tragedy that we never spoke of. 24. You eventually began to taste damage in my kisses. 25. I eventually became myself - Wild and volatile - and you didn’t like her enough to stay. 26. Loving you became as difficult and unrelenting as the twelve tasks of Hercules. 27. We had too many wounds from too many battles that had not healed right to make this work. 28. In the end, you were Apollo and I was Icarus, plummeting into an ocean made of death because you had melted my wings. 29. In the end, there were no Gods to save us. We had killed them all.

Nikita Gill, 29 Ways We Turned Our Love To Hate (via meanwhilepoetry)

[inveracious]

Said the men of Babel

Syllables have drifted loose from words - which lacked the weight to hold them in, having themselves seceded from the hierarchy of syntax (forsaking the patriarchy of phrases).

They float to my ears and my brain reassembles them to my Mother Tongue - nearly, a dialect close enough for incomprehension.

"Wallah wallah," said the men of Babel and the first generation, they nodded sagely (with blank eyes and empty smiles) still thinking they understood - it was the second that went insane (trying trying trying) but the third that figured it out, stuffing wax in their ears.

The Sirens didn't sing of sex, no come on, no allure - they simply sang their own sad songs, and laughed their tragedies until, having lost themselves, they shouted only of the sea.

Listen. Listen. Listen and you will hear - you will hear yourself - your fears and your desires.

Have you the strength to listen to the languages you don't speak? Have you the strength to ignore them?

They're not speaking to you, my friends. Not to you but about you.

So shut your ears and open your mouth and scream out all the stories you're holding onto the ones you think you've the rights to hold alone.

Speak. Speak. Speak. tragedy and your comedy, audience regardless - speak until they're your stories no longer and use up the words of which you thought you knew the meanings.

Use them up and spit them out and you will see what little use they ever were, and you - you will not know, not ever again - but you may understand that in the cud you have spat, in the sound as it hits the floor, in the cough and the hacking cough, in the choke and the sob and the sigh, you will read more than in the face, more than is signed with the hands. For you will read through the wallah.

And you won't give a damn.

(Such is the manifesto of this revolution.)

[meanwhilepoetry]

We nurtured our demons more than we nurtured our love and in the end, we made them so powerful that they destroyed us.

Nikita Gill (via meanwhilepoetry)

[inveracious]

The note found on her desk

I am drowning in forgotten appointments and unreturned messages and missed phone calls and unanswered emails.

I am suffocating in ignored reminders and broken resolutions and failed plans and squandered chances and wasted time.

Cause of death will be transgressed promises and mislaid notes and disregarded correspondence.

[inveracious]

[inveracious]

That didn’t we all

I come from a place where the paint peeled off the wall, she said, trying to explain. Trying to explain the what and the why of wherefore the words, her words, were slipping off her tongue at angles obtuse. She had come from a place where the paint had chipped - it was flaking still - it had come off in jagged sheets of plastic skin. The off-white had given way to eggshell, beneath which the sage had become visible below the salmon pink which could be scraped away like chalk.

It was just sometimes – it was just sometimes that – when the talk turned the conversation to the side and left her sidled, it was those sometimes that she let her tongue slip along the freshly plastered, stuccoed wall – only to find it smooth. These new-build, purpose-built, all-of-a-kind, one-of-a-piece, monoliths in which she could find no layers, no sediment, no edges. It was just these sometimes, as her nails failed to snag, that it occurred to her.

[vohugaona]

Let us begin with what a myth is not: a myth is not a lie or a false statement to be contrasted with truth or reality or fact or history, though this usage is, perhaps, the most common meaning of myth in casual parlance today.

W. Doniger, The Implied Spider. Politics & theology in myth. (via vohugaona)

[inveracious]

[inveracious]

Tell Tale

My guilt is reflected in the to-do lists I can no longer bear to face. They laughed at my pain so I lost them, citing the plausibility of accident. But they continued to multiply in my mind and to gain a little peace I took to scrawling in the margins, on the walls, across my palms and down my hands.

Now my shame watches me from mirrors for I am its reflection.

[eatsleepdraw]

“The Bridge Between Dimensions” . acrylic on canvas 65x80cm 

https://www.instagram.com/eliisamolder/

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