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LA DAME DU MARDI, OR A TALE OF MAGIC

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Antigonick, Anne Carson

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“There’s a legend about a Chinese painter who was asked by the emperor to paint a landscape so pristine that the emperor can enter it. He didn’t do a good job, so the emperor was preparing to assassinate him. But because it was his painting, legend goes, he stepped inside and vanished, saving himself. I always loved that little allegory as an artist. Even when it is not enough for others, if it is enough for you, you can live inside it.”

— Ocean Vuong, from an interview with Zoë Hitzig in Prac Crit

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Sylvia Plath, from a diary entry featured in The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

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Bernardo Kastrup, Meaning in Absurdity

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until the water runs clear

by valla :3

i see lovers in my day to day life and think huh, odd. you guys are covered in the orange and purple of each other’s soul. you guys are bathing in this grey and seem happier doing so.

i see partners in my day to day life and think huh, strange. you guys are reflecting the world inside one another, blinding everyone in your path. you seem happier doing so.

i see two ‘will they won’t they’s’ in my day to day life and think huh, weird. you guys are ever so subtlety putting your pieces together, jumbling them up in a sense, and think no one else knows. you seem happier doing so.

i see us in my day to day dreams and think huh, fascinating. we are pulling each other out of our own heads, unbeknownst that the other truly is pulling and we are just holding on. i see the smudges of our life painted on your face as i feel pieces of me assembling into place. we have a radiant energy felt by those in close proximity. small, yet powerful.

i wake up.

i look around my room and into my eyes to find no traces of you. it’s as though you never existed. i have vigorously scraped and scratched any surface splattered by you. i have bathed and rubbed until the water ran clear.

window upon window, once glazed and bright, stand still and motionless. i no longer like the light.

i have etched, and polished, and painted, and demolished any and every piece of you. i have drowned in memories so that my mind may run clear. i have lost and ached for someone i no longer remember, someone i never knew.

i have sat, and watched, as the water ran clear.

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Rainer Maria Rilke, Selected Letters, 1902-1922

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Anne Carson, from “The Glass Essay”, Glass, Irony, and God

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yellow

never knew a Venus fly trap could be so fleeting

I thrive

perpetual yellow flow

bound by the springtime in Connecticut

a sidewalk so clean that even monarch butterflies are mindful

concord grape vines rip through the woods line

higher than most

but still we pick

roots grow out over these rivers

why go down when you can go out

perpetual yellow flow

the yellow is and primordial

for it is the first sign of life

and the first sign of death

in creation and destruction

she is beautiful

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May Sarton, Journal of a Solitude

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hiii!!

love to u! i hope everyone is having a pleasurable online visit <3

i really need to organize my poems page! i have been writing a lot over the last 5/6 months, but have been more focused on editing the ones that are already published at the link in my bio.

ive started an are.na page, to reach more artists, and to organize my writing in an online space that i pay to use bc i think it’s a great platform and want to contribute to its growth. i also want to feel more comfortable with people outside of tumblr reading my work, and i feel like ive only reached that point of comfort bc of all of u for making me feel so welcome here. thank u from the bottom of my heart to all followers and mutuals i love u!

are.na is free to browse, for all content on their website, which is so great but a free account is limited to 200 blocks of content that you can save. i will link below!

i might upload a poem soon, in honor of cancer sun/sagittarius moon <3

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Oscar Wilde, from a letter featured in The Selected Letters of Oscar Wilde

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Voicemail [10/10/24-12/7/24]

the closest thing to preserving a memory in time

frozen, stuck, like a bug in amber

or a dinosaur

unsuspecting, in a tar pit

a little bite of love

or a little message of happiness

a flash, a screenshot of life

filed away in the library of a phone

he said voicemails are sad

and he's right

looking back on love

is always a little bittersweet

but voicemails remind me

that at some point, at some time,

somewhere in this world.

someone loved me

the stars are out tonight

but i'm afraid they'll go away soon

i'm afraid everything will go away

but i still can't make myself savor it

imagine we could send voicemails to the stars

i hope they know we love them

i hope he knows

i love him

i get sad when he doesn't answer the phone

but i still leave him voicemails

i wonder if he listens to them

or if they just sit there, unheard

i love him in the way

you listen to a voicemail

sometimes smiling, or laughing

sometimes with tears covering your face and hands

one day, we'll all be unreachable

but i hope i can still send a voicemail

to your phone

maybe you'll hear it

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Oscar Wilde, from a letter featured in The Selected Letters of Oscar Wilde

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Sylvia Plath, "Thalidomide"