Wow. Your Writing Piece On Carrying The Girl Up The Hill And Filling The Bath Was Astounding. Like I

Here's another photo from my great grandfather Axel's fishing trip out west in 1928. I'll probably put a few more up before I'm through.

are you for real about the writing game? If so I'm carrying; A small browning pocket knife A compass + whistle Allergy medicine Water bottle Extra battery charge for my phone

I am for real. Thank you for your contribution and interest. 

Inventory: 1. A small browning pocket knife 2. A compass + whistle 3. Allergy medicine 4. Water bottle 5.Extra battery charge for my phone

Cleo had been painting when the first bout of thunder came up her shoulders. The tip of her brush, which was dappled with a carefully mixed hazle, spasmed across the canvas with her seizure. The cornea of her subject’s eye blurred out of his head and spilled down his coat. When the clouds stopped ricocheting through her, Cleo had gotten up and walked away from what she’d done to the acrylics. 

She stayed far away from precision after she learned that the storms had taken up a residence in her brain. Moving towards broader strokes of being, Cleo made abstractions where her seizures looked just the same as something she might have done on purpose. She carried abstractions with her and started walking through the birch woods as another form of smearing. She brought a compass but left intentions of reading it at home where the cat slept. She brought a knife to convince herself that, in a case of emergency, and even mid-seizure, the blade could convulse a mess into any sort of aggressor.

Cleo would walk and fall and shake to stillness on the forest floor, shivering like a dropped cornea. She’d call her mother after, but only after. She would get up once she was alone and unmarried from the movement, drink water, and make call on her cell phone, which she kept well-charged for accident. Sometimes, as the oceans of it leaked out of her and left their salts behind on her nerves, she’d take a dose of allergy medicine to keep the cottonwood from bothering her. 

               - C. Essington

Thank you for the opportunity, I hope it’s alright. 

If you want to play this writing game, send me a theoretical inventory of five items and I’ll try to write a person for it. 

I love the poems you choose for your page. They're absolutely lovely! :)

Well thank you, your readership is greatly appreciated. 

EDIBLE FLOWERS, poems by Lucia Chericiu, reviewed by Claire Oleson • Cleaver Magazine

Here’s a poetry book review I wrote published by Cleaver magazine. 

- c. essington

hey just really fast because tomorrow in america, things are occurring, this is a queer-positive, and in general, queer blog that’s safe and small and mostly words. you can send me asks, I can try to offer support as best I can, I’m always willing to attempt to direct people to resources and hotlines. I hope everyone can find safety and comfort, you’re beautiful. we will exist tomorrow and on other days and we’ll be breathing and laughing through the terms of other leaders to come.

feel free to reblog if desired.

best,

c. essingotn

- c. essington

your writings, especially your poetry are so well done. I get so excited when you post new ones! Your imagery is so strong, but not overpowering and your voice is just wonderful. Please carry on <3

Thank you for your sincerity and kindness, hearing that people read and get something from my 3 a.m. labors makes it enormously more valuable. I will certainly keep hitting keys with my fingernails in sequences that I think embody pretty ideas so long as sweet eyes like yours traipse about the page. 

art cuz I haven’t posted in a bit

The Desk Lamp as an MRI

waking up mid-self, she saw the window snarl with a girl in its teeth, skin and hair and eye-contact caked between the panes. it was her size, though grey and smeared, but not her girl.

afraid the light would hear, she kept her mouth half-closed in the shape of a cut, the depth of slick and coming rain. behind the window’s molars, the winter woods, white and black and curdled with the night: undrinkable.

beyond her body, in the shape of her chest, birches rose and fell like breathing. they kept tempo with her lungs but took in more air than she could ever court behind her throat.

the tree transposed behind her left eye hefts a knotted burl into her head, a whorl of bark, a way of stopping, a tumor in the brain, exactly her type of cold.

she diagnoses in the dark, in her mind of snowbank and its thoughts, unmigrated birds, that she wings over her dimmed out cells, those fallen branches, ribbed as though with veins.

she traces lengths of skin. the glass has a purl of flesh dressed up like the early morning and the storm that never came. waking up mid-self, she saw the window snarl it was her size, though grey and smeared, but not her girl.

                                                 - C. Essington