Edie Parker

'You and I, we don't love too wisely, but too well.' UNDER CONSTRUCTION.

[lovetoowell-blog]

There is scarcely anything but the fumes of wine, and the dim glow of the electric lights in red shades that can recall her from these melancholy thoughts. The others around her drink like persons condemned to death, silent and continually until they have reached the necessary dose. And with this they will begin to laugh and to make great fun of their sentimentalities. Edie does not need as much as they. They laugh because they cannot weep.  Today, though, she’s not sure she needs to laugh, or to weep.

[fairytalesques]

you’re in love with a boy who is a prayer on your lips with no god to go to. he’s bleeding sunlight and you’re trying to patch up the holes in his heart with trembling fingers and the blood keeps spilling. you’re in love with him, here’s the best part: he loves you more than his own life. he’s golden as they come but he’s bleeding out. one day, someone will strike a match on him and he’ll explode. so, here’s the worst part: he loves you so much more than his own life.

sunlit lovers | m.j. (via fairytalesques)

[babil6]

[gael-garcia]

William S. Burroughs & David Kammerer, Kill Your Darlings

“Ramsay Allen is an impressive-looking gray-haired man of forty or so, tall and a little flabby. He looks like a down-at-the-heels actor, or someone who used to be somebody. Also he is a southerner and claims to be of a good family, like all southerners. He is a very intelligent guy but you wouldn’t know it to see him now. He is so stuck on Phillip he is hovering over him like a shy vulture, with a foolish sloppy grin on his face. Al is one of the best guys I know, and you couldn’t find better company. ” - And the Hippos Were Boiled in Their Tanks

[lovetoowell-blog]

ghostbxster:

He’s got a huge backpack on his shoulders, a large grin that seemed way too big to be completely natural ( even if it is ). 

“ Can I come in for a moment? I’m a paranormal investigator and uh — this place is crawling with ghosts. ”

Edie stands there, her eyes on his man with the huge backpack and the smile on his face. Her eyes narrow, and half of her wants to turn him away, but she hasn’t had proper company in a while, and she hasn’t bothered to really talk to anyone for a while. She shrugs a shoulder and steps aside to let him in. ‘What kind of ghosts, cause I have to say there’s been a rather irritating presence here most days,’ she says. Obviously she’s talking about Jack, only it’s not so obvious as this other man doesn’t know him. ‘So you’re a ghost hunter?’

[lovetoowell-blog]

cxpt:

His eyes travelled down to the floor and he noticed that the other’s skirt was wet. It would’ve been rude of him not to invite her in, even though he was in the process of getting over is latest illness. Bucky would call him crazy for allowing her in. His ma would think him a gentleman for doing it. In the end he steps from the door and motions for Edie to come in. “Do you have one of the fellas coming by to look at it?” Steve definitely couldn’t and Bucky was off working so he couldn’t suggest his friend. He didn’t know any of the others in the building so all he could do was offer her a dry place until someone came by to fix whatever was flooding her small apartment.

“Bucky? No, he’s working. He won’t be back till later tonight.” It wasn’t the first time someone had come by looking for the other man. He had actually gotten used to be overlooked by everyone. Steve had thought that maybe Edie would be different. She’d spent some time talking to him when they saw each other outside of the building. “Do you want me to tell him you’re looking for him?”

Edie smiles as he steps aside, and she goes into the apartment, leaving little wet drops in her wake, though she had tried her best to wring it out in the hall, but, well, she’s still dripping. This apartment is set out the same as hers, so she knows her way around, but Steve is somewhat awkward and she doesn’t want to impose. There’s another smile when the other replies and she shakes her head, a definitive no. ‘No, don’t worry about it, it’s not that important. I called somebody but they said they’d be half hour, you know that means about two hours, though,’ she says with a laugh. And now, it’s nothing against Steve, but he doesn’t really look like the type to be handy with the plumbing. She stands in the living room and she looks at the way it’s decorated and she can’t help but smile, wondering who was the main decision maker, was it Bucky, or Steve? Steve seems more the type to decorate. ‘I’ll  just wait, if that’s all right, I’ve told them I’d be here, I sort of just assumed you’d let me in. I hope you don’t mind.’

[dinomartins-blog]

Frank Sinatra in Anchors Aweigh (1945)

[lovetoowell-blog]

ghostbxster She looks at him, something’s odd about him, even if it doesn’t stand out. It’s not his clothes, not that she can tell, it’s not his face, or his body, everything is there.  ‘Is there something I can help you with? I wasn’t expecting visitors.’

[lovetoowell-blog]

chimeraism:

lovetoowell​

‘when you look at me  with your eyes too big it makes me feel small.’

‘I don’t really know what you’re talking about, I’m afraid. I’m one for the poetry in life, really.’

[lovetoowell-blog]

poetvoyant:

           “ & what would that be ? “

‘I don’t know what you get up to in the early hours,’ she says, eying him up. He’s a strange one, he is, a little too something for her liking (she’s never claimed to be good with words). ‘But I’m going to assume that the used underwear I found behind the couch is yours.’

[scripturiient]

Dark eyes even darker in the low light of his writing room fall over the girl’s face as she leans closer — he’d have to be blind not to see that she was tired but he can’t help raising his free hand, fingertips brushing across her cheek as he tucks her hair behind her ear.

‘Of course.’ His voice is soft though a little rough in his own exhaustion. It’s much too late to be discussing the complex subtleties he attempts to put on paper & he’s not entirely satisfied with any of it anyway.  

‘ t’s just the usual… Us. The guys.’ His hand falls to rest at Edie’s shoulder, fingers curling around the nape of her neck & he pulls her a little closer, cradles her head against his chest, a low, disagreeing hum.

‘ — You’ve got work in the morning.‘ Someone has to make sure they don’t starve. ‘ ‘ll tell y’ about it when the sun is up again.’

[lovetoowell-blog]

Whether he told her or not she doubts she’d really understand it properly, Jack’s always been a little bit too complex for her. There’s something dark about him that she’s not quite been able to grasp, and she’s not sure she will. She goes closer, forehead against his chest, and she sighs. Of course she’s tired. She’s tired because Jack sleeps in while she gets up, she’s tired because her evenings and her nights are muffled conversations in the living room, the shattering of a glass here and there, Lucien Carr’s laughter, Allen’s “hushed” voice. And she has work in the morning. It’ll be mayonnaise sandwiches for breakfast, lunch and dinner until payday again. She doesn’t say anything about it, though. Her eyes close for a moment and she cal almost feel herself falling asleep where she stands. She wants to leave him there to write –– perhaps in hopes that tomorrow night he won’t be writing, he won’t be nattering away.  ‘Okay, then tomorrow, when I’m home,’ she replies. Her voice is low, laced with the oncomings of sleep. And it’s then that she takes in a breath and moves back a little, one hand on his cheek. It’s not so far gone as there’s circles under her eyes, but a few more days of this and there might be. If this is what life with Jack Kerouac is, and is going to be, perhaps not being married isn’t such a bad thing after all, she things. ‘We have no food in the house, except bread and mayonnaise. You have to get something.’ Or get your friends to bring their own.

[lovetoowell-blog]

Gautier sentence starters

'I wanted to love someone.'

'I prostituted myself and acted like a virgin going into a place of ill-repute.'

'But it is the fashion nowadays to be moral and Christian.'

'I admit I fall short of those standards of morality.'

'We ought not to make a fuss about so little.'

'It is unbearably fatuous to claim that people are envious of you.'

'Not the middle ages again, not the middle ages still!'

'Nobody was allowed the slightest little dramatic murder.'

'What use is the beauty of women?'

'What a shame he's a man.'

'What a shame I am not a woman.'

'And may we know the name of this illustrious character?'

'So he didn't make you forget me?'

'You are not the sort of person one forgets.'

'I know your true worth.'

'This is exactly what I imagined love would be like.'

[benjiscloset]

The person I reblogged this from matters.

[lovetoowell-blog]

[lovetoowell-blog]

scripturiient:

He’s not sure he deserves the forgiveness ( if he’s getting it ), why would anyone put up with him? But he’s not about to give up either, disappear in the self-hate. He’s thankful for all the chances he’s given.

‘Dunno…’ He doesn’t control his friends, certainly too relaxed to tell them to leave when they show up possessed with some idea, but, ‘I’ll tell ‘em I’m sick or something if they do.’

Or just not answer the door. They’ll have to actually lock it & the windows since Lucien has a habit of climbing in those too. Dark eyes follow Edie’s gesture, lacing their fingers together as hers curl into his palm.

‘Nah. It’s fine.’ The words have left him now.

She loves him, she does, and that is why she  forgives so often, that is why she’ll keep taking him into bed and that’s why she’ll put up with it. His hand in hers reminds her of this, and she gi- ves it a little squeeze before leaning into him. Her eyes close. It’s late. ‘Hey, Jack — baby. Am I in your book?’ she asks. She doesn’t doubt that she is, really, but whether it’s good or not is another thing. Perhaps she has a different name, perhaps she’s different in the book. ‘Will you tell me about it? What it’s about and all that?’ She has to show some interest in it. She does have interest in it because it’s what Jack wants to do. It’s Jack’s baby. She has to. But perhaps a little more and he wouldn’t spend so much time with the boys, maybe that’s all that he needs.  ‘We can have a glass of wine and you can tell me about it?’

[coppcr-blog]

          “I ain’t crooked, I don’t take bribes,” says Bertie, flatly, but            even so it’s punctuated with the clink of two glasses, and            he puts out the last of his cigarette in a chipped porcelain            ashtray before he’s cracking open the bottle.

          “Gifts on the other hand? Thank you very much, sweetheart.”

           He pours a generous two fingers each, and half-sits with            his glass in his hand, perched on the edge of the desk            only briefly. He puts all his weight on his bad knee, and has            to abruptly stand back up and pace a little just to hide the            wince that comes with it.

           Perhaps he’s trying a little too hard, but how can he not?            A pretty bird and pricey whiskey? It’s his lucky day.

          “–But you expect something eventually, right? What can I            do for you, huh?”

[lovetoowell-blog]

Her eyebrows raise when he limps away and he has to pace, her lips turn up into a little smirk, but then it fades. A remnant of the war, she imagines, and that’s not something to laugh about, really. She picks up the glass he’s poured for her, and she smiles at him, taking a little sip. She’s not much a fan of hard alcohol like this, but she’ll drink it anyway, she’ll sip at it in a way that a man never would. Bertie would swallow it in one.  ‘Nothing for now, I think, Officer, so no need to worry yourself about it.’ This was much more a pre-emptive strike than anything else. They had become friends since Jack had been in prison, and she does not doubt that there will be at least one more time where Bertie’s friendship is useful. ‘Just enjoy it.’

[weltenwellen]

Don’t tell them too much about your soul. They’re waiting for just that.

Jack Kerouac, Windblown World: The Journals of Jack Kerouac 1947-1954 (via weltenwellen)