°

maybe pretentious

[parisiannightss]

Shelley Duvall as Wendy Torrance behind the scenes of The Shining, 1980.

[stephmood]

@sadlyinlovewithlove

[disease]

WEEGEE / "LOVE IN HARLEM" / <1946 [ferrotyped gelatin silver print | 35.4 × 28.3 cm.]

[weltenwellen]

Franny Choi, Soft Science

[oldwinesoul]

𝐼𝑛 𝑚𝑦 𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑚𝑠 𝐼 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒 ℎ𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒 ℎ𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑚𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑎 𝑠𝑝𝑙𝑖𝑡 𝑠𝑒𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑑 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦 ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑑𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑝 𝐼 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑢𝑟𝑒𝑑 ℎ𝑎𝑠 𝑚𝑒𝑎𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔.

[lizlemondyke]

I think this is my favorite poem.

[softs0ngs]

Jessica gives me a chill pill

I keep waking up in different beds and in this same body. I have to say this right away so you know it didn't start with limbs slackened, hair oily, a cruelty towards the sun. It started in the backseat of Jessica's Pepto-dismal truck. She tied my hair back with rubber bands when the freeway passed clean through us. Jessica says I can feel like a cherry blossom tree wobbling under lightning. Jessica has a forehead scar from the deep end of a pool. I ask Jessica what drowning feels like and she says not everything feels like something else. That night we lose the 7/11 lottery but I draw my lucky number, no quarters so we scratch our tickets with fingernails. Jessica says that's the sanctity of ritual—  a ceaselessness in how I look at every drop of rain before it touches ground, the way Jessica mouths my name in her sleep eating each syllable like a minor god. I'm coming out as someone who loves things unevenly, my theologies strewn out in the dark, this iPhone an almost oracle. Jessica forces me to watch every sunset even when I am full. She puts her fingers in my mouth and says open your eyes. Open them. You see the small-town girls on big billboards? One day that's us.

-Angie Sijun Lou

[poetrywillsaveme]

Heather Christle, The Trees The Trees: ‘The Air of Ruthlessness in Spring’

[coinywords]

“It was an old theme even for me: Language cannot do everything –”

—

The Dream of a Common Language

Adrienne Rich

[jinxproof]

© Zhong Lin

[facciocose-vedofilm]

[dhaaruni]

“When Daphne transforms into a bay tree, the moment is one of both horror and deliverance. She is no longer what she once was, but the metamorphosis frees her from the unwanted attention of Apollo. This duality of horror and emancipation sits, I think, at the core of female transformation. Within the horror genre (and arguably everywhere else), bodies read as female are always subject to pain, and to the threat of violation. Becoming something else—a tree, a freak, a monster—preempts this pain and reduces the risk of harm. It may even, if the transformation is the right one, allow you to cause harm in return.”

— “On Body Horror and the Female Body” by Julia Armfield

[whosafraidofvirginiawoolf]

For what I saw at the abbey then (and will now recount) caused me to think that often inquisitors create heretics. And not only in the sense that they inagine heretics where these do not exist, but also that inquisitors repress the heretical putrefaction so vehemently that many are driven to share in it, in their hatred for the judges.

The Name of the Rose, Umberto Eco (translated by William Weaver)

[anditslove]

Iain Thomas, The Light That Shines When Things End

[my-kind-of-poetry]

[blacklilyghost]

“Patricia” by Florence and The Machine

[metamorphesque]

— Clarice Lispector, Água Viva