“Someone I love has died. I am certain, but I cannot tell who. A bird that sounds like a cuckoo calls the ours like an old clock, only not the hours we mean; …There is no rope to swing unraveling in the moonlight. You cannot hope backwards or in reverse.”—from “If It Ever Happens that the Fire Goes Out” by Lisa Olstein (via sleepanddream)
“Where you counsel me on lips and throat. Where you love the hiss of my atom. Where the ocean is zero miles from everywhere. Here, madness has no map. Here, God is abridged. O to be loved this way. To have lips that bear fruit. To be cancelled.”—from “Love Poem with Peanut Shells” by Victoria Chang (via sleepanddream)
“These are morning matters, pictures you dream as the final wave heaves you up on the sand to the bright light and drying air. You remember pressure, and a curved sleep you rested against, soft, like a scallop in its shell. But the air hardens your skin; you stand; you leave the lighted shore to explore some dim headland, and soon you’re lost in the leafy interior, intent, remembering nothing.”—Annie Dillard Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (via barelyknittogether)
“It was hot, so hot the mirror felt warm. I washed before the mirror in a daze, my twisted summer sleep still hung about me like sea kelp. What blood was this, and what roses? It could have been the rose of union, the blood of murder, or the rose of beauty bare and the blood of some unspeakable sacrifice or birth. The sign on my body could have been an emblem or a stain, the keys to the kingdom or the mark of Cain. I never knew. I never knew as I washed and the blood streaked, faded, and finally disappeared, whether I’d purified myself or ruined the blood sign of the passover. We wake, if we ever wake at all, to mystery, rumors, of death, beauty, violence…. “Seem like we’re just set down here,” a woman said to me recently, “and don’t nobody know why.”—Annie Dillard Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (via barelyknittogether)
Lies I've Told to My Three Year Old Recently, Raul Gutierrez
Trees talk to each other at night. All fish are named either Lorna or Jack. Before your eyeballs fall out from watching too much TV, they get very loose. Tiny bears live in drain pipes. If you are very very quiet you can hear the clouds rub against the sky. The moon and the sun had a fight a long time ago. Everyone knows at least one secret language. When nobody is looking, I can fly. We are all held together by invisible threads. Books get lonely too. Sadness can be eaten. I will always be there.
“…each memory recalled must do some violence to its origins. As in a party game. Say the word and pass it on. So be sparing. What you alter in the remembering has yet a reality, known or not.”—from The Road, Cormac McCarthy (via poetbabble)
“The true Southern watermelon is a boon apart, and not to be mentioned with commoner things. It is chief of this world’s luxuries, king by the grace of God over all the fruits of the earth. When one has tasted it, he knows what the angels eat. It was not a Southern watermelon that Eve took; we know it because she repented.”
“And then I felt sad because I realized that once people are broken in certain ways, they can’t ever be fixed, and this is something nobody ever tells you when you are young and it never fails to surprise you as you grow older as you see the people in your life break one by one. You wonder when your turn is going to be, or if it’s already happened.”—Life After God, Douglas Coupland (via lyriquediscorde) (via northerndownpour) (via buyhercandy) (via cankerbloxxom) (via monkeytypist)
“Vivien Leigh’s Scarlett, in all her selfishness and intrepidity, is one of the great, iconoclastic figures in movies, a byword for ‘gumption’ and survival, a heroine who grows more astonishing over time," writes Haskell in the introduction to her book. "Scarlett’s radical refusal of the rules of southern Christian ladylike behaviour, her horribleness and deceitfulness, her cumulative sins and improprieties blaze forth in a strange and ambiguous villainy.
“Her flaws are never excused but are somehow extenuated by her remarkable courage and resilience.”
Australian academics, too, are becoming more inclined to appreciate Scarlett’s strengths. Queensland University of Technology academic Helen Yeates, while remaining sceptical that Gone With the Wind is a groundbreaking work of feminism, agrees Scarlett’s story is ultimately one of survival, as well as an enduring fable about the power of the Protestant work ethic, particularly in the second half of the film, in which Scarlett painstakingly rebuilds the O’Hara family fortunes.
“Because of what happens to her, Scarlett has to move out into an active role and survive,” says Yeates, who specialises in feminism and film studies. “She had to swallow her pride and go for it; it was all about rebuilding. She went from being the daughter to going out and doing it herself. It’s an individual saga, with that ‘pull yourself up by your bootstraps’ Protestant work ethic that makes it a very American story.”
It is noteworthy that Gone With the Wind was a product of the Depression, when Americans were encouraged to use their survival skills to overcome immense economic hardship, just as they are being asked to do today amid the global financial crisis.
“Scarlett is a survivor,” says Toni Johnson-Woods, a professor of popular culture at the University of Queensland. “She’s the sort of person who would cut up the curtains to make a dress. She gets dirty. She works. She doesn’t actually do anything bad. She’s manipulative, but what person isn’t when they have to be?”
Johnson-Woods, who teaches the novel in a popular fiction course each year, finds that many of her young female students “dislike Scarlett intensely. I never understand it.”
She thinks many find Scarlett a confronting personality, especially those who like to confine female characters to traditionally passive roles. “She’s a woman who says: ‘I’m not going to lie down and take what life’s dealt to me, I’m going to do something about it.’ And she’s a bitch. She’s not the image we see of women on television. I love the fact that she’s a fully fleshed-out female character, and one who undergoes an amazing journey from the start of the book, when she’s a 16-year-old, to the end, when’s she’s 28.”—Yes, we do give a damn | The Australian
“And I can’t tell if all of these bold statements
are making me sick or jealous.
Who doesn’t want to crawl into stars and be happy?
Sometimes I want to jump off buildings
because I can’t fix anything, can’t leave the country,
can’t set anything on fire.
Nobody should have to be with a person like that. ”—from the poem Forty-Three by Cassandra at Miniature Bridges
It is often difficult to see moments reconstructed and replayed in another person’s words. Your voice translated into text, clean and precise, without any sort of stumbling or mispronunciation, which means that whatever has been written is already a half-lie, which probably creates a perfectly sensible balance, as every line that falls out of your throat is only half-truth. What the other half is? Well, we’re not far enough along in the story to be able to tell yet. Once upon a time, a boy met a girl and he named her home. Are you seeing a theme here? Can you sense the loss? She had a name for him but she never said it out loud. He used words like delicious and drunk, and it carried them through the winter all right, but when summer came her hands stayed empty. It wasn’t what anybody wanted, it was barely worth keeping on the tongue. Sometimes you see so much brightness in a person, you can’t look away. It’s like looking at the sun, it isn’t any sort of good for you and just because you feel it all over your skin, doesn’t mean it’s yours.
And I said, “You shouldn’t write fiction. I don’t feel anything.” It isn’t always about lovers, it isn’t always speaking to someone inside the room. So, how well do you think you know me? I say this to wallpaper. Dusty blue damask.
He gives you a book of poems that he has written within the last six months. You read them late in the afternoon. They might as well be titled, “You Are Not The One,” or “I Remember Everyone But You Even Though You’re The Only Set Of Hands Still Here.” Well, fuck. What are you supposed to do with that?
I work so goddamn hard to build a life away from you. You don’t want this but someday you’ll be dead and I’m going to need something to fill the space. Besides, I sleep in your bed, give you home, kiss your forehead when you’re sad. You don’t love me, so what more do you want?
Again, to the wallpaper.
It’s like listening to a song with the most beautiful chord progression that’s ever dug its way into your eardrums, but the only lyrics are, “Wake up!” over and over.
“Then they stippled everyone
with shadow and everything went to pieces.
Suddenly, the wind clubbed against me like
a clapboard. You heard. People do things.
People collide like sex. You told me what you
heard. I repeated his name quietly.”—from “The Professor’s Lover” by Victoria Chang (via sleepanddream)