It seemed more honest to remain silent.
Ingeborg Bachmann, quoted by R. Kolewe in 'Afterletters: From an essay on desire'

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Stranger Things

Andulka
Peter Solarz
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
Not today Justin
h

Kaledo Art

JBB: An Artblog!
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trying on a metaphor
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Origami Around
Cosmic Funnies

pixel skylines

祝日 / Permanent Vacation

JVL

izzy's playlists!

Love Begins
Keni

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@noisywombatduck
It seemed more honest to remain silent.
Ingeborg Bachmann, quoted by R. Kolewe in 'Afterletters: From an essay on desire'
My boyfriend did not die in 1991. I told a lie and it turned into a fact, forever repeated in my official biography. He died on Christmas Day, 1990, when his family disconnected the mechanical breathing machine. He was a composer in the school of music. We were working on a piece for voice and strings. I liked writing the words under the whole notes, hyphenating them to make them last. I liked sitting on the bed in his apartment, writing on the sheet music—bigger paper, thicker, how it sounded when it fell to the floor when we got tired. It was winter break, friends in town, we hopped from party to party, catching up but separately. It was late, the night was clear, the roads were empty. The four of them were sober, the driver in the other car was not. I was a few miles away, in a bar, waiting. When the bar closed, I left him an angry message for standing me up. A few hours later, a friend called and told me. He suggested I break into the apartment and start removing things before the family arrived. For several minutes I didn’t understand, then—evidence. He hadn’t told his family and it didn’t seem right to tell them now, to suggest that they didn’t really know him. I drove in the darkness between the accident and dawn. I climbed through the window. I couldn’t figure which things looked suspicious and which things would be missed. I was sloppy, rushed. I grabbed the wrong sheet music. It was a piece that had already been performed. A few days after Christmas there was a memorial. I sat in the back. As part of his speech, his father mentioned the missing music and made an appeal for its return. I couldn’t give it back. On New Year’s Eve, in a black velvet jacket, at a party in the lobby of a downtown hotel, with a drink in each hand—one for him, one for me—I kept asking where he was, if anyone had seen him. I had his passport in my back pocket. I shouldn’t have taken that either. It was the only picture of him I could find.
Richard Siken, COVER STORY / DEAD BOYFRIEND POEM
Richard Siken does it again
richard siken, in pithead chapel
Our hands contain our humanness. Sometimes they give us away. They clasp a chair while we pretend not to be scared. They sweat from the palms while we beg our foreheads to stay dry. They also hold. They pray. They dance along the keys of a piano. They tickle. They dust themselves in flour. They shape bread. They scratch the back of a lover. We hide so much in this life, but I don’t know if it is possible to hide the way a hand can open and close itself out of care or loss or love.
Devin Kelly, from Ordinary Plots: "J. Estanislao Lopez's 'What the Fingers Do'"
i've come to realize there are only two kinds of tragedies: preventable and inevitable. preventable tragedies are the kind where everything could have maybe worked out if only. if only romeo had gotten the second letter. if only juliet had woken up earlier. if only creon had changed his mind about antigone sooner. if only orpheus hadn't turned around.
inevitable tragedies are the kind where everything was always going to end terribly. of course macbeth gets deposed, he murdered his way to the throne. of course oedipus goes mad, he married his own mother. of course achilles dies in the war, he had to fulfill the prophecy in order to avenge his lover.
both kinds have their merits. the first is more emotionally impactful, letting the audience cling to hope until the very end, when it's snatched away all at once leaving nothing but a void. the second is more thematically resonant, tracking an inherent fatal flaw in its hero to a natural and understandable conclusion, making it abundantly clear why everything has to happen the way it does.
someone has to leave first, this is a very old story. there is no other version of this story
Amy Hempel, "Cloudland", Sing to It
my farm girl blues
Anti-hero -Taylor Swift
Third eye - Florence + The Machine
The boxer - Simon and Garfunkel
On (never) changing
3rd feb 2023: a nice day
all will be well you can ask me how but only time will tell
my friend just told me that her grandfather loved making mutton for his family but he couldn't make it by himself because he was sick so his wife who did not touch meat all her life, did the entire prep for him everytime he wanted to make it. love exists in the kitchen love is cutting the coriander for you before you make mutton
i luv it when my friends see something and it reminds them of me. i still exist when im not around
u always remember the sock not the war but always the sock
its not always gonna be like this :sad
its not always gonna be like this: happy
my family lives in a different state
this obliterated me
Antigonick, Anne Carson
Punishment, Rabindranath Tagore (Translated by William Butler Yeats)
Margaret Atwood, from Selected Poems II