I’m tryin to be open and honest about my tumblr use
This imperative to tell and to be heard can become itself an all-consuming life task. Yet no amount of telling seems ever to do justice to this inner compulsion. There are never enough words or the right words, there is never enough time or the right time, and never enough listening or the right listening to articulate the story that cannot be fully captured in thought, memory, and speech. The pressure thus continues unremittingly, and if words are not trustworthy or adequate, the life that is chosen can become the vehicle by which the struggle to tell continues.
We meet midway to walk white cobbles
under a fish-flesh gray sky.
Europe is collapsing; we are collapsing
always and again no matter how hard
we love one another. I don’t understand
our failure, where the feed loops
back and spits us into another country,
another junior suite reenacting this same,
same beat of a scene that begins, rises,
never ends, always ends —
Our intentions don’t meet,
their courses set differently
by a force you don’t believe in,
could be as simple as life. I want
to be the wife you don’t want.
You won’t let go of my wrist.
I resist, threaten, bully, acquiesce.
We write the next act of The Alchemist
in New York, Lisbon, a beach,
a bar, star-crossed maybe
from different galaxies. You approach,
I retreat. You retreat, I reproach.
The manic two-step jitters
over North Africa’s dunes
farther than our hero, Santiago, can see.
I rise in the night to find the sharp knife
that came with the pears as a courtesy.
— Eliza Griswold
Hardy Francoise - Tous Les Garcons.mid
Françoise Hardy - Tous les garçons et les filles
Thanks for submitting this and making me aware of this song, billie-is-on-holiday!!!
sidenote: today at work in front of my manager i had a one direction related outburst then everyone side eyed me and crickets chirped and i remembered that liking one direction is not something that people my age in general think is ‘coool’ or ‘relatable’ (gulp) and that nobody gets me!!!!!!, anyways now i’m too embarrassed to show my face at work so i quit
on the other hand i keep making jokes about how i’m getting really good at the alphabet (via shelving books by author) and people are finally starting to LAFF
Lately, too much disturbed, you stay trailing in me
and I believe you. How could I not feel
you were misspent, there by books stacked clean on glass,
or outside the snow arriving as I am still arriving.
If the explanations amount to something, I will tell you.
It is enough, you say, that surfaces grow so distant.
Maybe you darken, already too much changed,
maybe in your house you would be content where
no incident emerges, but for smoke or glass or air,
such things held simply to be voiceless.
And if you mean me, I believe you.
Or if you should darken, this inwardness would be misspent,
and flinching I might pause, and add to these meager
incidents the words. Some books
should stay formal on the shelves.
So surely I heard you, in your complication aware,
snow holding where it might weightless rest,
and should you fold into me—trackless, misspent,
too much arranged—I might believe you
but swiftly shut, lines of smoke rising through snow,
here where it seems no good word emerges.
Though it is cold, I am aware such reluctance
could lose these blinking hours to simple safety.
Here is an inwardless purpose.
In these hours when snow shuts, it may be we empty,
amounting to something. How could I not
wait for those few words, which we might enter.
— Joanna Klink
What I adore is not horses, with their modern
domestic life span of 25 years. What I adore
is a bug that lives only one day, especially if
it’s a terrible day, a day of train derailment or
chemical lake or cop admits to cover-up, a day
when no one thinks of anything else, least of all
that bug. I know how it feels, born as I’ve been
into these rotting times, as into sin. Everybody’s
busy, so distraught they forget to kill me,
and even that won’t keep me alive. I share
my home not with horses, but with a little dog
who sees poorly at dusk and menaces stumps,
makes her muscle known to every statue.
I wish she could have a single day of language,
so that I might reassure her don’t be afraid —
our whole world is dead and so can do you no harm.
— Natalie Shapero