Misguided Ghosts

Never Let Me Go Jessica DonnellanTumblr

Sun, 19 May 2013 02:16:16 -0400

Never Let Me Go
Jessica Donnellan
Tumblr

Nadav Kander

Sun, 19 May 2013 00:31:03 -0400

Nadav Kander

Sorry if it's personal or something, but I was wondering what's between you and Hailley?

Sat, 18 May 2013 23:35:32 -0400

she’s my christina, she’s my person.

Gabriel Orozco

Sat, 18 May 2013 22:57:17 -0400

Gabriel Orozco

"We’ve been kissing for months. Three times a week our toothbrushes share a chipped porcelain mug in..."

Sat, 18 May 2013 22:22:00 -0400

“We’ve been kissing for months. Three times a week our toothbrushes share a chipped porcelain mug in my bathroom. As my lips reach for the juice falling from her laugh, her mom calls. I listen as she talks about Biology, her new job, asks about her sister. Her eyes drop as she whispers, No, I still don’t have a boyfriend.

On cue, I stop chewing. She looks at me, waiting for my face to flush, for me to tear from the bed, but I won’t get mad at her. She shouldn’t have to explain why we can’t go swimming in public, why I don’t own a razor, why she doesn’t need to buy birth control. She hangs up the phone; I pick up the fruit, tell her Apparently, there’s a tiny amount of cyanide in apple seeds.

She shrugs, says she can handle a little danger, but I’ve studied how her dimples disappear when she lies, and I know she’s thinking about a man she could parade around her family, who could kiss her scratchy with stubble. The kind of man I’ll never be.

She squeezes my hand in the movie theater dark but tosses it to the side in front of her friends. Says she just needs time. She walks on the sidewalk. I walk in the street. She closes the door. I kiss it goodnight. She goes home for Thanksgiving. I promise not to call.

If I were a postcard, she could hide me in her pocket. If I were clay, she could mold my body into something easier to love. If I were the guy who sells her a cup of coffee every morning. I could smile at her anonymously, safe as a stranger.

She kisses down my neck, my peel hiding the rotten fruit inside me. As I tell her about the cyanide, her head resting on my chest, she talks about cider, autumn pies. See, she says, Apples are harmless. But she saves the last bites for me, scared to let her lips wander too close to the core.”

- Miles Walser, “We Eat an Apple In My Bed” from What The Night Demands

Shane McAdams

Sat, 18 May 2013 13:32:59 -0400

Shane McAdams

"I tell my piano the things I used to tell you."

Sat, 18 May 2013 00:18:36 -0400

“I tell my piano the things I used to tell you.”

- Frédéric Chopin

Ori Gersht, Cells

Sat, 18 May 2013 00:14:50 -0400

Ori Gersht, Cells

Nick Veasey

Fri, 17 May 2013 20:17:27 -0400

Nick Veasey

"Sadness does not turn your world black and white; it leaves you standing naked on an iceberg with..."

Fri, 17 May 2013 18:52:26 -0400

“

Sadness does not turn your world black and white;
it leaves you standing naked on an iceberg
with tangles in your hair and the world
too bright for your eyes.
Worry sets in that someone will notice but everyone is too busy
watching for their own Titanic.

There is nothing quiet about it,
except maybe the holes it makes inside of you
and even those seem to whistle on windy days.
The world yells at you with muffled voices as if you’re standing
in a labyrinth of glass walls and somehow
you’ve forgotten a hammer.

It turns you into a series of nouns, without the adjectives
and without the verbs. You don’t remember
where you misplaced your descriptions, your actions
(under the sink with your emotions and Mr. Clean)
You become:
bed,
shower,
socks,
coffee,
keys,
obligations

You’ll see others stripped bare like you but it won’t matter-
they can’t save you. All you can do is lower yourself gently
into the swirling water and tell yourself to hold on tight.

Ocean, diver, wall, air.

”

- Kelsey Danielle, “I Swam to the Other Side and Back Again”

Jeri Eisenberg

Fri, 17 May 2013 18:26:09 -0400

Jeri Eisenberg

Andre Petterson

Fri, 17 May 2013 16:29:22 -0400

Andre Petterson

"They lay beside each other in bed. She is sleeping. He is awake. She always falls asleep before he..."

Fri, 17 May 2013 15:57:00 -0400

“They lay beside each other in bed.
She is sleeping.
He is awake.
She always falls asleep before he does.
The sound of her breathing calms him.
It pushes the ghosts out from his rooms.
With the backs
of his fingers he rubs her elbow, and listens.
He wishes to pluck her heart
like an eyelash or a flower
from her chest
and make an infinite map out of it.
She knows he must use his hands to make things.
His hands are restless things.
He talks with them, like blind birds.
He uses them to hold her.
In the morning, he will make tea with them.
They will drink from the same cup.”

- Dalton Day, “The Cartographer”

Sad Farewell by Duane Michals, 1968Also

Fri, 17 May 2013 00:01:21 -0400

Sad Farewell by Duane Michals, 1968

Also

good things: i’ve been rehired for a job i’ve had for the past three summers tomorrow...

Thu, 16 May 2013 23:36:00 -0400

good things:

i’ve been rehired for a job i’ve had for the past three summers
tomorrow i’m going to look at paint colors (blue grey for the kitchen, light violet for my bedroom)
the rain has sung me to sleep for the past three nights
i have three anne michaels books to tell me bedtime stories
the world can be a beautiful place and tonight,
i’m okay

Julia Latein-Kimmig

Thu, 16 May 2013 23:25:05 -0400

Julia Latein-Kimmig

I love your blog, my darling; you have no idea how much. What are some of your favourite writing blogs, please? Kisses from London!

Thu, 16 May 2013 22:09:17 -0400

I made a list here:

http://pigmenting.tumblr.com/post/39912222994/who-are-your-favorite-tumblr-writers

"So much of the city is our bodies. Places in us old light still slants through to. Places that no..."

Thu, 16 May 2013 20:51:14 -0400

“

So much of the city
is our bodies. Places in us
old light still slants through to.
Places that no longer exist but are full of feeling,
like phantom limbs.

Even the city carries ruins in its heart.
Longs to be touched in places
only it remembers.

Through the yellow hooves
of the ginkgo, parchment light;
in that apartment where I first
touched your shoulders under your sweater,
that October afternoon you left keys
in the fridge, milk on the table.
The yard - our moonlight motel -
where we slept summer’s hottest nights,
on grass so cold it felt wet.
Behind us, freight trains crossed the city,
a steel banner, a noisy wall.
Now the hollow diad !
floats behind glass
in office towers also haunted
by our voices.

Few buildings, few lives
are built so well
even their ruins are beautiful.
But we loved the abandoned distillery:
stone floors cracking under empty vats,
wooden floors half rotted into dirt;
stairs leading nowhere; high rooms
run through with swords of dusty light.
A place the rain still loved, its silver paint
on rusted things that had stopped moving it seemed, for us.
Closed rooms open only to weather,
pungent with soot and molasses,
scent-stung. A place
where everything too big to take apart
had been left behind.

”

- Anne Michaels, “Phantom Limbs”

Polly Bagnall

Thu, 16 May 2013 20:14:12 -0400

Polly Bagnall

What would be your conversation starter?

Thu, 16 May 2013 19:46:12 -0400

most commonly is probably just asking how a person is and genuinely caring about the answer. how they respond and what their body language says can lead down so many different routes for conversations. in high school, i used to ask my best friend how her heart was doing because hearts are important things too.