how to make a bird
lift me higher / let me look at the sun
/dissolves

/dissolves

††

strange strange strange how i have a flashback to waking up on chilly mornings in esk when i was maybe oh maybe five or six and hours later my mother texts to says she’s passing through esk and none of us really have a reason to go there now so we all just pass through, pass through. and i remembered lying on my back on the floor in the silence watching the lace curtains move ever so slightly in the ever so slight breeze and whispering stories to myself while the others slept. but here i crept downstairs to the kitchen and boiled the kettle and danced a treble jig in my socks. it’s colder. i’m colder. and i know how it goes because it goes like this every year and i feel it happening again and i don’t know how to stop or if i want to stop and i struggle with steady-state systems when everything seems balanced on a knife-edge or plummeting or like a train (inevitable, inexorable). so today i pulled a jumper over my shirt over my tights and checked the temperature. three degrees at the airport so i turned the heater on for the first time this year - there’s a smell, have you noticed? hot air has a smell - and i was seventeen again sleeping in motel rooms in the middle of winter with that bad wood paneling from the seventies lining every surface. clench a fist; my hands are my father’s, my skin is my mother’s. who am i who am i who am i these are not my hands. there’s an icy ache deep inside. i wonder what i’m doing here. the kettle boils but i’m still cold.

††

Who Are You, Really? by Mikky Ekko
††"The truth is you already know what it’s like. You already know the difference between the size and speed of everything that flashes through you and the tiny inadequate bit of it all you can ever let anyone know. As though inside you is this enormous room full of what seems like everything in the whole universe at one time or another and yet the only parts that get out have to somehow squeeze out through one of those tiny keyholes you see under the knob in older doors. As if we are all trying to see each other through these tiny keyholes.

But it does have a knob, the door can open. But not in the way you think. But what if it could? Think for a second — what if all the infinitely dense and shifting worlds of stuff inside you every moment of your life turned out now to be somehow fully open and expressible afterward, after what you think of as you has died, because what if afterward now each moment itself is an infinite sea or span or passage of time in which to express it or convey it, and you don’t even need any organized English, you can as they say open the door and be in anyone else’s room in all your own multiform forms and ideas and facets? Because listen — we don’t have much time, here’s where Lilly Cache slops slightly down and the banks start getting steep, and you can just make out the outlines of the unlit sign for the farmstand that’s never open anymore, the last sign before the bridge — so listen: What exactly do you think you are? The millions and trillions of thoughts, memories, juxtapositions — even crazy ones like this, you’re thinking — that flash through your head and disappear? Some sum or remainder of these? Your history? Do you know how long it’s been since I told you I was a fraud? Do you remember you were looking at the Respicem watch hanging from the rearview mirror and seeing the time, 9:17? What are you looking at right now? Coincidence? What if no time has passed at all? The truth is you’ve already heard this. That this is what it’s like. That it’s what makes room for the universes inside you, all the endless inbent fractals of connection and symphonies of different voices, the infinities you can never show another soul. And you think it makes you a fraud, the tiny fraction anyone else ever sees? of course you’re a fraud, and of course you try to manage what part they see if you know it’s only a part. Who wouldn’t? It’s called free will, Sherlock. But a the same time it’s why it feels so good to break down and cry in front of others, or to laugh, or to speak in tongues, or chant in Bengali — it’s not English anymore, it’s not getting squeezed through any hole."
David Foster Wallace, from “Good Old Neon,” Oblivion (via commovente)
llapnimoy:

1979

llapnimoy:

1979

(via lovelytrek)

getting real sick of olaudah equiano so this is what i’m doing instead

getting real sick of olaudah equiano so this is what i’m doing instead

(via vaginawoolf)

††

andy’s usual nickname for me is ‘vitamin k’ but in a text he just sent he called me ‘k sera sera’ and i think that’s my favourite one yet

nextyearsgirl:

The absence of women in history is man made.

nextyearsgirl:

The absence of women in history is man made.

(via organicallygorgeous)

††

really quick WOD today because it was an open gym so i went in, did the thing, and then left because i have so much reading to do today.

it was ‘helen’:

3 rounds for time of:

  • 400m run
  • 21 kettlebell swings
  • 12 pull ups

i did it in 16:28 which felt kind of slow but i was taking it easy with the pull ups. i really need to learn kipping! i can only do assisted strict pull ups but i’m getting better. today felt good. and having room for improvement is a good thing. i’m pleased.

took me a frickin’ long time to talk myself into going inside, but there were friendly people there (of course) and the box in phillip is fantastic.