The Solitude of Corpses, or, The Depth of the Ocean

There are odd, even embarrassing facts that follow us at times.  Accidental occurrences that instantly expose a truth and/or contradiction of ours that is undeniable.  One of these accidental occurrences is that, every time Miley Cyrus's Adore You comes on somewhere, I think of a person I am surprised I think about so readily. Always. (I know, I know. Where am I that this song is coming on?  It's as if this sliver of pop culture haunts me through the electrical sockets of most buildings.) It's a funny, sad, weird betrayal of heart and mind.  But it's enjoyable all the same.  The truth rises no matter how deep you attempt to bury it.

(pause)

This weekend has been one of recharging.  Of writing. Of creating. Of friendship. Of late night adventures with people I sort of know. Of revisiting a film that speaks to me in different ways every time I watch it.

(pause)

I have been thinking about time, lately.  Not in the typical ways of scarcity or big questions of life. Rather and simply, the enjoyment of time.  Even when that enjoyment involves sadness or worry or fear.  There is so much going on in the world.  I want everyone to feel safety and certainty, but I also know that these terms are relative and can instigate so many ugly things. But in a fundamental way, a basic way, I want people to feel these things, and for these things to be true.

be well; be safe


k.

(image: Lush Paintings of Solitary Swimmers by Pedro Covo via genetic-freak Tumblr)

A Penny Dropped Into a Puddle of Oil

As the core of the world goes up in flames (literally; figuratively), I am relaxing into things with a functioning box fan and a red bra.

These days have been odd, indeed.

From time to time, I pair myself with someone quite the opposite of me. I like to study their stitching; their routine. I think of it as a form of self restraint- my curiosity peaked by their checks and balances; the way they butter their toast.

It's only a matter of time before I daydream into the more complicated.  I take a bit more time for myself to ride the anchor down to the bottom of this sea. Past the firm handshakes and punctuality; past the sports fans and socially acceptable DUIs.

During my descend, a thousand images of black, blue, purple and a pitch gray.

It is where I find home.

Above, there are the perfect haircuts of the blue eyed, blonde-haired religious children of the corn, all grown up.

Below, there are the perfect haircuts of those sable- and black-haired beauties who study and practice the most dutiful way to shine a boot.

There is a difference, after all,  between one who cums in a surprise and fear of their own body, and one who familiarly taunts you with its peaks.


k.
(image: Betony Vernon The Boudoir Bible via korlaena tumblr)