arkangles
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be young be dope be proud <3
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Gena Rowlands in Minnie and Moskowitz (John Cassavetes, 1971)
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It’s August and im thinking about love (and sex) again. (an essay on loneliness by me)
It’s August and I’m lying in bed again staring at the ceiling, tracing the lines on the back of my legs and trying to shake a hangover I can’t afford. In the corner above my bed there are cobwebs hanging and I’m reminded of their lost intricacies, the webs weaved by a since departed creature that have been blurred and weighed down by the dust. My dust. I really should remove them; I should stand on my tip toes and wave a duster at them but something stops me. I tell myself its that the ceiling is too high, I couldn’t possibly reach even if i stood on my bed in my highest platforms. Even if that were true it doesn’t excuse the beads that are still poking at the soles of my feet from a bracelet I broke a week ago. When my friend gave me that bracelet for my twenty-first birthday over a year ago my life was so different. There was a man who I said those elusive three words to and sincerely believed that I meant it, he said them too and probably sincerely believed that he meant it and as it goes on a Monday in July he changed his mind. Now he has another who he says it to, and probably sincerely believes that he means it. She has beautiful eyes and I want so badly to warn her; I want to tell her that she is caught in a trap and she must knaw on her leg to get out even if it’s agony even it seems impossible. Then again I never managed it, so why would she. It’s August and I’m lying in bed thinking about that word again. I turn it round and round in my head and then I pass it down to my stomach and let it roll there but somehow it never quite sits right. It never feels like there is a place where it fits. While the one who I tried to stomach it for once moved on, I found something resembling solace in the men with whom I knew I would never want to make it fit. The series of rushed one night stands who held me and kissed me but existed in entirely different worlds to that word and the question of where it may or may not fit inside me. It’s been a month since I last had one of them and I’m finally starting to reckon with what loneliness means for a woman like me. Some days it means staring at the ceiling picking out the details and imperfections of my bedroom so I dont pick too hard at those in my head. Other days it can be beautiful. I take long walks and go to the cinema on my own. I have wonderful and beautiful friends who make the loneliness feel not so alone, who stop me from convincing myself that something is broken. They all tell me that the spiders are coming soon. By September we’ll be trapping them under stolen pint glasses, sliding gig flyers underneath and chucking them out the front door. I used to be terrified of them but these days I don’t mind so much, it’s a nice reminder that time is moving forward and things will change again. In September I will probably still lie on my bed staring at my ceiling, but I hope I will be able to afford my hangovers again. In October perhaps i will find some place inside myself or somewhere else where i can make love fit. I tell myself it doesn’t matter either way as long as I can hear my housemates chatting in the kitchen and I can see the sun streaming through my curtains.
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"Silentium", Fyodor Tyutchev (translated by John Cournos)
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This window cat seat comes with a legend to identify the current occupant.
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