I identify with this so much. So much.
<3
(via queershoulder)
“All my life I have loved traveling at night, with a companion, each of us discussing and sharing the known and familiar behavior of the other. It’s like a villanelle, this inclination of going back to events in our past, the way the villanelle’s form refuses to move forward in linear development, circling instead at those familiar moments of emotion… For we live with those retrievals from childhood that coalesce and echo throughout our live, the way shattered pieces of glass in a kaleidoscope reappear in new forms and are songlike in their refrains and rhymes, making up a single monologue. We live permanently in the recurrence of our own stories, whatever story we tell” -Michael Ondaatje, Anna, “Divisadero”
[video]
“I used to think I was the strangest person in the world but then I thought, there are so many people in the world, there must be someone just like me who feels bizarre and flawed in the same ways I do. I would imagine her, and imagine that she must be out there thinking of me too. Well, I hope that if you are out there and read this and know that, yes, it’s true I’m here, and I’m just as strange as you.” — Frida Kahlo (via fuckyeahfemmes)
I love this site and want everyone to read it. No. Really. You, too.
I like questions.
(Source: olvidare, via entre-deux-femmes)
I just set up a comments thing, but it’s hard to know whether and how it works. Would someone try commenting on something and let me know how the process works? Is it annoying? Anything else? Is there a sleeker way to do this on tumblr?
This is a still from the new Deathly Hallows movie, but really, I think it might be among the gayest things I’ve ever seen. Quite possibly. I particularly love the blue jacket Harry, and the jean jacket Harry. Wow.
This is matching up with some deep unsettledness in me right now. Maybe I’m growing a galaxy in my ribcage.
Max Ernst - Birth Of A Galaxy (1969)
A little more Ernst for a Sunday morning. His late-period works are my absolute favorite. There’s several more at the link, all incredible.
(via www.spamula.net)
I wrote this a couple years ago, in the spring, when two boys had killed themselves in a short time period, and I am posting it now because I am waiting for the rain to start today, for fall to start, and there is a list (that is long, but the fact that it can be called a list makes it too long, by definition) of beautiful young people who have taken their lives, and it makes me so angry at this world, and it makes my heart hurt.
*****
The rain this time of year is beautiful. Each drop is a blessing, and I don’t know why we aren’t just all out there in it watching it fall down, knowing that we don’t have enough prayers in enough languages to confront the beauty of worms struggling, half squashed on the crack of our concrete sidewalks.
These paths we make for ourselves are broken. The rain is falling, and I don’t know why we aren’t watching those blessings fall down on every inch of our world. We are distracted, perhaps, and I know that my heart is heavy. I know that our hearts are heavy. Who is taking care of our hearts? We each carry them inside our chests, but I do not carry my own. I carry the bits and pieces of the hearts of the people who love me sutured together, and it is when they pull in different directions that my heart breaks. It is when my heart, carried in the ribcages of the people I love, is carried far away, and stops it’s gentle beating that I fall and stumble on a cobblestone pushed awry in these Cambridge streets.
I know that each raindrop today is a tear and blessing for Jaheem Herrera and Carl Walker-Hoover. I know that rain doesn’t make a difference, and my tears don’t make a difference. The springtime is beautiful, and fragile. Everything cracks and the blessings are in the dark days when the clouds gather tight at the horizon and scraps of blue are chased away.
Who is carrying their hearts now, and how many hearts were broken when their young bodies swung? How is this different from a lynching? The trees they hung themselves from were growing in playgrounds, and every inch of rope they used was wound by the words of their peers, and the words unspoken by teachers and administrators, and by all of us who are walking around like our children are not in constant danger. Our children. We lynch our sissy boys and our younger sisters, and where do our hearts find their home when we know that all of this is happening? And how do we dare go outside to taste the blessing of the water?