42

I'm Rina. Any pronouns will do. I create, I consume. I speak english, russian and german.

[csharchive]

Car Seat Headrest at Pitchfork Music Festival

[bakwaaas]

one thing about me is I will Leave

[knockoffcaesar]

Lately it's been coming down to "can I get those extra 30 minutes of sleep and get ready in 20?" And the answer is never a yes.

[knockoffcaesar]

As much as I want jewish characters to be played by jewish (at least at some level) actors more, I also think that we can't really demand anything as long as we have shows like "The Bear" where a bunch of jews pretend to be italian (and they are good at it)

[knockoffcaesar]

God I'm so in love. If I could draw I'd draw his eyes. If I was a decent poet I'd write a whole poetry book just about him. But most importantly, if he wanted me - I'd spend every moment making him smile, making him food, making him come, making him happy.

[dailyflicks]

POSSESSION 1981 | dir. Andrzej Żuławski

[knockoffcaesar]

I took pictures of him at that party - too many pictures, probably. But it's okay, it's his party anyways, and I am the photographer friend, and others were taking pictures too. I saw those pictures; they're nothing like mine. On mine he's auroral, his big, dark eyes gleam in the dim light of the room, and he's so, so beautiful.

I'm actually afraid that it will be obvious to anyone who will happen to lay their eyes on my photos how hopelessly in love I am.

I hope it will be obvious to him.

[knockoffcaesar]

I only hope that death is kinder than a mother

[knockoffcaesar]

The most special kind of relationship a woman can have with a man, in my opinion, is not romantic or sexual (at least not on the surface). I think that it is a relationship of this fond, tender friendship, when a man treats you with all the gallantry of a lover without any actual claim and all the camaraderie of a brother or the regard of a father. A friendship where he doesn't pretend to ignore your femeninity like it's some shameful, degrading thing you have to hide in order to be seen as a person, but instead basks in it, accepts it as if it was a precious gift, untouchable and benevolent; a friendship where he sees you as an equal, as someone he can trust his weaknesses with; a friendship so affectionate and brutally honest simultaneously. A friendsip that you guard so fiercely from any suggestions of a notorious romantic or sexual bond between a man and a woman for it is so much more complex and rich to you than that, and you wish you could just keep it as it is - simple and pure.

[knockoffcaesar]

I am looking for my father in his friends, in his cassetes, in old pictures of him, really old - long before me, long before my mother, in this weird band he liked, in the tales of his colleagues, everywhere but where he actually is.

I'm trying to piece together a portrait of a man I don't really know, a man he had been before he was my father. The picture is blurry and fragile, like watercolor on thin paper. It is made of his reflections, fragments of unreliable human memory and everything he has left me. I look for him in my face, in my voice and my ability to drink anyone under the table, in my taste in music and film, in my harshness and also this little something I'd like to keep undiagnosed.

I'm sewing all of it together, with my (his, really) unsteady hands and myopic eyes, trying to keep it all together with my desperate and crude stitches, trying to get a somewhat accurate form tracing nothing but a shape, a silhouette, a shadow.

I look for him everywhere but where I can always find him. I don't want to go there. Haven't been there in a year now, actually.

[knockoffcaesar]

We're in a car. She's annoyed with me for some reason, I'm annoyed with her for no reason. Okay, there is a reason, if we're being honest, but it's so vast and unfathomable that I can't quite put my finger on it. Isn't that how it's supposed to be anyway? She's my mother, after all.

The sun is scalding my eyes and the inside of the car smells like hot leather. Her favorite Janis Joplin CD is playing, and it's like a peace offering. Which, well, isn't really accurate - for one, I probably only like it because it's her favorite, and two - there wasn't even a fight. Neither of us know what it is, but we both know what to do - pretend it's not there.

I try to pop my back and entertain her by listening to her wondering why she is so different from everyone (and she probably is, only not to me, because, you know, she's my mother) for what feels like (and probably is) a thousendth time.

When we reach our summer house, I sneak out for a walk and finally smoke a cigarette, then another, then one more. When I come back we cook, we eat, we talk again. I hope that a bottle of beer will make me less irritatable, less cold, more gentle - but it only puts me to sleep.

I don't sleep well: the sheets are damp, I wake up every other hour and the dreams are far too realistic and serious for my liking.

I wake up sixteen minutes before my eight o'clock alarm and check her for breath real quick - I always do when we sleep together. Maybe it's stupid, she's not that bad of an alcoholic after all, but I still do it. If I ever learned anything from Dad, it's that death doesn't need a reason or a two weeks notice.

While she's still sleeping I have a chance to smoke in peace, so I do. I sit on the porch and listen to the choir of birds, the soft buzz of busy insects, the trees in the light wind and then some genius mowing his lawn at nine in the morning.

When she wakes up, I'll go into the woods and take some pictures. I'll spend an unnecessary amount of time there. I'll get a dozen spider webs in my face, climb some trees, smoke by the swamp. I'll be alone and in peace.

[mortimer]

ibuprofen please save me from the dragon

[365filmsbyauroranocte]

Conte De Printemps (Éric Rohmer, 1990)

[jinxproof]

Milla Jovovich | Jalouse (June 1997)

[knockoffcaesar]

I'm annoyed with him for some reason, though I can't recall wich. I thumb my card-file of nasty remarks, choose one: You make love like a cowboy raping a sheep. I've been waiting for the right time to say that, but maybe peace is more important.

Margaret Atwood, Under Glass

[knockoffcaesar]

...still it's the first domestic thing I've done for him. He ought to approve, he's obliged to approve, he'll see it's getting better. I'm feeling so good I even look at other people in the train, their faces and their clothes, noticing them, wondering about their lives.

Margaret Atwood, Under Glass

[knockoffcaesar]

It is May, and I am so, so young, yet feel so old. Old, and tired, and worn out by all the time I've wasted living. And there is nothing ahead of me, and I can't look at this beautiful spring around me, don't want to breath it's bloom and nightingale songs in, don't want it to remind me how little time I have left, how everything is youthful, fierce, and alive - all things I never was and will never get to be. And I don't want my beautiful young lover's touch, don't want him to look at me, for I am old and grey and my eyes are dull and my face is stained with fatigue. He has so much to do, so much love to give, and this spring is for him, and it might be my last one.

May 2022

(Guess it wasn't my last spring after all)