Bedroom Entanglement

Recently, I've been all about off-the-shoulder sweaters and glasses while reading late at night.

There is nothing better.

Lost-in-a-sweater with thigh high opaque socks, a spill of hair tied ridiculously on the top on my head, and panties as obscene as they are silky to be seen by no one but my locked bedroom door and tangle of sheets.

What can I say? I'm in my Book Romancer stage.  It's something I do from time to time when I feel like there have been too many people scratching at my door, talking at me on my phone, or simply expecting too much from me.  I reach my tipping point, grab the most brain-tantalizing book I can get my fingers on (The Shadow of the Wind, by Carlos Ruiz Zafón as the case is, currently), and march directly into my room. I lock the door, shut off the phone, and make a promise to myself to never come out again.  I make vague checklists in my head pondering the viability of this plan between the chapters that I read (where will I pee? who will pay my rent? can one live off of books if one eats every page after they read it? i won't miss the outside world. is it cheating if I email to have a pizza delivered through my window?) and eventually, fall asleep: my defiant face pressed half upon my pillow, half upon the beauty of a thick and printed page.

(pause)

Other than that: I feel myself craving salt and pepper hair'ed adventures again as of late.  I am mid-air (think: trapeze), knees slipping from the novelty of fresh faced babes as my hands reach to grasp the smoke-laced creak and season of older spines.




Be well; be loved. 


-k.

(photo by reka nyari via slimgrape tumblr)

Deep Sea Diver, or, Message Bottles Bubbling Up From the Bottom of the Ocean

Yesterday I saw a photograph of a watch, an anniversary present, that had been found in a burned up van that was teetering on the edge of a cliff. Of course there is more to this story, but what is relevant to what I want to write, here, is that, aesthetically, it looked like something pulled out of the depths of the sea.

How things are submerged and then resurface has it's own murky history.  We push down into the pressured depths of memory at times, in order to search for particular lost or favorite images.  But there are other times that the memories surround us without our conjuring.  An instant and complete submersion. And what is seen in these instant envelopings can be as surprising as it is consuming.

What I cannot control (thoughts; memory) I research in order to understand.  It's childish, really.  Reading about the neurology of memory in hopes that some of these memories will fade away when, in honesty, I don't want them to.

I've thought about returning to that photo booth. White placards smelling of black markers.

But they have yet to make a photo booth that fits: One that plummets downward into the nautical abyss, equipped with a waterproof camera and adequate pop flash, its backdrop curtain staying put.



-k.


(image from airows tumblr)

[title is a nod towards the Angel Haze song I can't stop listening to, lately, for exact and general reasons.  Check it out, but ignore the video. (It's a lyric video and thus is just corny). Just listen, instead.]

The Fortune of a Black Winged Home Upon Your Shoulders

And as I sit by a vase holding seven bright yellow tulips to write to you, I want you to know that I have not forgotten. A mug of steaming mint tea, two ice cubes added and melted (the shit is always too damn hot and I'm always too damn impatient) next to me so that I may cup it with my hands from time to time to remind us both that I can feel.

Take the mug, wrap it with both hands, breathe mint deep the into my eyes; my nose. Swallow.

(pause)

I've had thieves try to convince me that they were my home.  Did they really think I would fall for it?  It's like experiencing something from a romance novel that has been reverse-engineered by an asshole: It's too easy to see.

Let me remind you that I am an expert witness.  And while I have yet to define or justify my expert status, I can tell you this: 

These eyes and this heart may love as fully as the bright of these tulips, but this dart-eyed crow upon my shoulder remembers what I have come from, and whispers reminders to me based upon the direction of my feet.  Cautions me.  Makes certain of the direction of my toes.

I may forgive as easily as a turn of the page, but this is coffin-closing different from returning to a rotten house disguised as a home.

When I write home- in pen; in thoughts- I know exactly who I am writing to.

(pause)

Glory be to the ink-spilt feathers that look over me. People find you leering and crude, but they secretly envy your loyalty and insight all the same.


be well; be loved.

-k.


(image credit to: cabinhome tumblr)

Why Stalking Victims Do Not Enjoy Anonymous Flowers and Other Should-Be-Obvious Shit

Most women have experienced some kind of violence by men.  Usually in multiple forms, on multiple occasions. This whole "acting like survivors of violence are new or rare" is bullshit, statistically and based-in-reality speaking.

I was talking with a friend of mine this morning about a book I read a long time ago.  The book said- in total binary and heteronormative language, but go with me here- that the main experiential difference between men and women is that a man's biggest fear with a woman is that she will laugh at him, while a woman's biggest fear with a man is that he will kill her.

To folks who did not grow up as girls/women and do not live as one:

Be aware of this huge ass difference, and let it inform your actions.




(photo credit: Kayama Matazo's Frozen Forest)