I buy all your favorite foods so I will be ready when you come home
because once I did this and you said “This is how I know you love
me.”

I go on long walks alone and think about a poem my friend wrote
that goes ”This is how you die by distance.

I hum the sound of the dial tone under my breath.

I stare at my hands and wonder at their uses. I consider pawning
my thighs. I consider auctioning off my hip bones. I put my breasts in
a box on the top shelf of the closet. I do not need them now.

I think of all the things I have to tell you when I will see you.
Stories like:
I just found out pumpkins are technically fruits
and
Cary Grant’s first job was in a traveling circus
and
Most mammals are born able to walk and learn to run within minutes, so we are not crazy for moving so fast.

This morning I wrote your name in the steam on my mirror, even though I knew it would fade within minutes

In my best notebook I wrote “I miss you” ten thousand times.

I wrote “I think I am missing one of my ribs”

I wrote “I envy the way leaves know exactly when to fall from the branches and when to come back in the spring”

I wrote “Everyone else isn’t you. It turns out that’s a huge problem for me.”

Reblogged from La vie en rose
Yesterday, I spent 60 dollars on groceries,
took the bus home,
carried both bags with two good arms back to my studio apartment
and cooked myself dinner.
You and I may have different definitions of a good day.
This week, I paid my rent and my credit card bill,
worked 60 hours between my two jobs,
only saw the sun on my cigarette breaks
and slept like a rock.
Flossed in the morning,
locked my door,
and remembered to buy eggs.
My mother is proud of me.
It is not the kind of pride she brags about at the golf course.
She doesn’t combat topics like, ”My daughter got into Yale”
with, ”Oh yeah, my daughter remembered to buy eggs”
But she is proud.
See, she remembers what came before this.
The weeks where I forgot how to use my muscles,
how I would stay as silent as a thick fog for weeks.
She thought each phone call from an unknown number was the notice of my suicide.
These were the bad days.
My life was a gift that I wanted to return.
My head was a house of leaking faucets and burnt-out lightbulbs.
Depression, is a good lover.
So attentive; has this innate way of making everything about you.
And it is easy to forget that your bedroom is not the world,
That the dark shadows your pain casts is not mood-lighting.
It is easier to stay in this abusive relationship than fix the problems it has created.
Today, I slept in until 10,
cleaned every dish I own,
fought with the bank,
took care of paperwork.
You and I might have different definitions of adulthood.
I don’t work for salary, I didn’t graduate from college,
but I don’t speak for others anymore,
and I don’t regret anything I can’t genuinely apologize for.
And my mother is proud of me.
I burned down a house of depression,
I painted over murals of greyscale,
and it was hard to rewrite my life into one I wanted to live
But today, I want to live.
I didn’t salivate over sharp knives,
or envy the boy who tossed himself off the Brooklyn bridge.
I just cleaned my bathroom,
did the laundry,
called my brother.
Told him, “it was a good day.”
— Kait Rokowski (A Good Day)
Reblogged from La vie en rose
luminous-lu:

not art (by Ana Luísa Pinto [Luminous Photography])
Story 23/52
——-
not art
Don’t do it pretty, make it ugly. No, not like that. That’s too well done. That’s too clear, you need it to be less obvious. How do you get that? Blur it. Don’t make it easy for me to look at. Don’t make it nice. Make it artistic. What’s art? I don’t know, but it’s not that. If people like it, you’re doing it wrong. Just make me hate it. Make me hate you. make it blurry. No, you’re not naked, so you won’t go anywhere. That picture you just put ten hours into and have a bruise to show for? Nothing. Another picture of a terrace with a chair? Everything. Just do it in film. Just do it in a way that it looks like you weren’t actually trying to create, but depicting a reality that everyone sees, everyone can photograph, but you think it’s special and somehow, we all think it’s too, simply because you yelled ‘it’s art’! Use art as an excuse for bad quality. Like the ugly and the unwillingly imperfect — because when it’s imperfect on purpose it doesn’t count — it just counts when you can’t do it any better but you still call it art. Just talk about in a pretentious way, that’s what makes it art. That’s what makes the academic people like you. that’s what makes it work. that’s what galleries want, nudes and blurs and broken film. because we couldn’t all do that. well, maybe we should.
or maybe we should just stop hoping we ever make it in the Art world.
Because fuck you, that’s why.
———
I’m just frustrated at some of the replies I’ve been hearing. Apparently, if it’s not photography that looks like it was taken in the seventies, it’s not good photography. If it’s not blurry past the point of recognition, it’s not photography. If it’s nice, if people like it, you should rethink it.
That makes me want to let this whole thing fuck itself and become a farmer.
What happened to art letting us create our own world?
Yeah, right.
——-
I will keep asking: do not blog my photos without credit AND linking back; do not use weheartit.com to bookmark my photos and please please PLEASE don’t instagram my work. Thanks to those of you who respect these requests.
facebook || 500px || website || blog || vimeo

luminous-lu:

not art (by Ana Luísa Pinto [Luminous Photography])

Story 23/52

——-

not art

Don’t do it pretty, make it ugly. No, not like that. That’s too well done. That’s too clear, you need it to be less obvious. How do you get that? Blur it. Don’t make it easy for me to look at. Don’t make it nice. Make it artistic. What’s art? I don’t know, but it’s not that. If people like it, you’re doing it wrong. Just make me hate it. Make me hate you. make it blurry. No, you’re not naked, so you won’t go anywhere. That picture you just put ten hours into and have a bruise to show for? Nothing. Another picture of a terrace with a chair? Everything. Just do it in film. Just do it in a way that it looks like you weren’t actually trying to create, but depicting a reality that everyone sees, everyone can photograph, but you think it’s special and somehow, we all think it’s too, simply because you yelled ‘it’s art’! Use art as an excuse for bad quality. Like the ugly and the unwillingly imperfect — because when it’s imperfect on purpose it doesn’t count — it just counts when you can’t do it any better but you still call it art. Just talk about in a pretentious way, that’s what makes it art. That’s what makes the academic people like you. that’s what makes it work. that’s what galleries want, nudes and blurs and broken film. because we couldn’t all do that. well, maybe we should.

or maybe we should just stop hoping we ever make it in the Art world.

Because fuck you, that’s why.

———

I’m just frustrated at some of the replies I’ve been hearing. Apparently, if it’s not photography that looks like it was taken in the seventies, it’s not good photography. If it’s not blurry past the point of recognition, it’s not photography. If it’s nice, if people like it, you should rethink it.

That makes me want to let this whole thing fuck itself and become a farmer.

What happened to art letting us create our own world?

Yeah, right.

——-

I will keep asking: do not blog my photos without credit AND linking back; do not use weheartit.com to bookmark my photos and please please PLEASE don’t instagram my work. Thanks to those of you who respect these requests.

facebook || 500px || website || blog || vimeo

Reblogged from La vie en rose
Reblogged from La vie en rose
Tags: love cs poetry poem
I wish I could describe  what goes on in my body,  in my veins and my synapses,  whenever I see you. 

I wish I could describe
what goes on in my body,
in my veins and my synapses,
whenever I see you. 

amandaonwriting:

I will remember the kisses our lips raw with love and how you gave me everything you had and how I offered you what was left of me, and I will remember your small room the feel of you the light in the window your records your books our morning coffee our noons our nights our bodies spilled together sleeping the tiny flowing currents immediate and forever your leg my leg your arm my arm your smile and the warmth of you who made me laugh again.
Charles Bukowksi

amandaonwriting:

I will remember the kisses 
our lips raw with love 
and how you gave me 
everything you had 
and how I 
offered you what was left of 
me, 
and I will remember your small room 
the feel of you 
the light in the window 
your records 
your books 
our morning coffee 
our noons our nights 
our bodies spilled together 
sleeping 
the tiny flowing currents 
immediate and forever 
your leg my leg 
your arm my arm 
your smile and the warmth 
of you 
who made me laugh 
again.

Charles Bukowksi

Reblogged from Daphne Beauty
amandaonwriting:

Stephen Fry: On Reading & Writing
Read slowlySavour every word and every line. Reading verse can be like eating chocolate - so much more pleasurable when you allow it slowly to melt inside of you, so much less rewarding when you snap off big chunks and bolt them whole, all but untasted.  In our age, one of the glories of poetry is that it remains an art that demonstrates the virtues and pleasures of taking your time. You can never read a poem too slowly, but you can certainly read one too fast. 
Read out loudAmong the pleasures of poetry is the sheer physical, sensual, textural, tactile pleasure of feeling the words on your lips, tongue, teeth and vocal chords.
Don’t look for meaningNever worry about ‘meaning’ when you are reading poems. A relationship with the whole art of poetry itself takes time. Allow meaning to emerge at its own pace. 
Be ready to writeBuy a notebook, exercise book or jotter pad and lots of pencils. Take it with you everywhere. When you are stuck in an airport, travelling by train, just doodle with words. Write, don’t type. As you learn new techniques and methods for producing lines of verse, practise them all the time.
Source for image

amandaonwriting:

Stephen Fry: On Reading & Writing

Read slowly
Savour every word and every line. Reading verse can be like eating chocolate - so much more pleasurable when you allow it slowly to melt inside of you, so much less rewarding when you snap off big chunks and bolt them whole, all but untasted.  In our age, one of the glories of poetry is that it remains an art that demonstrates the virtues and pleasures of taking your time. You can never read a poem too slowly, but you can certainly read one too fast. 

Read out loud
Among the pleasures of poetry is the sheer physical, sensual, textural, tactile pleasure of feeling the words on your lips, tongue, teeth and vocal chords.

Don’t look for meaning
Never worry about ‘meaning’ when you are reading poems. A relationship with the whole art of poetry itself takes time. Allow meaning to emerge at its own pace. 

Be ready to write
Buy a notebook, exercise book or jotter pad and lots of pencils. Take it with you everywhere. When you are stuck in an airport, travelling by train, just doodle with words. Write, don’t type. As you learn new techniques and methods for producing lines of verse, practise them all the time.

Source for image

Reblogged from Daphne Beauty

The Keurig

daphnebeauty:

I need to be me. You need to be you. Just because there’s a we doesn’t mean we can’t have ourselves. And so I bought a Keurig.

You were scared of what the Keurig meant. You were my sole provider of coffee. Provider of coffee for my soul. If I could have my own, I wouldn’t need you. I said you were being silly.

You weren’t.

I bought it for the exact reason you thought.

This is so freaking beautiful. And believe it or not, I know EXACTLY what you mean, even though I can’t put it into words as well as you can.

I often hate independance for what it does to relationships and for the struggles it causes, but at the end of the day, I wouldn’t change a thing.

Reblogged from Daphne Beauty