Seven-sided-cootiecatcher - Liverlaugherlover

Derica's LA Loft Debra Cartwright

“Matilde, where are you? Down here I noticed, under my necktie and just above my heart, a certain pang of grief between the ribs, you were gone that quickly. I needed the light of your energy, I looked around, devouring hope. I watched the void without you that is like a house, nothing left but tragic windows. Out of sheer taciturnity the ceiling listens to the fall of the ancient leafless rain, to feathers, to whatever the night imprisoned; so I wait for you like a lonely house till you will see me again and live in me. Till then my windows ache.”

Sonnet LXV, I Wait For You Like A Lonely House — Pablo Neruda.

"The witch, the whore and the monster are all really the same archetype. Dangerous and unpredictable, they defy the archetypes of ideal womanhood that we have encountered throughout this book. They defy Venus with their ageing bodies and menstrual blood. (All things that are suppressed in our images of Venus overflow in our monsters.) They undermine maiden virginity with their unapologetic sexuality. They don't submit themselves to their husbands, nor are they exclusive with their partners. They are either happy in their own liberated independence, or they operate in covens of collective womanhood. Monstrous women know things that others don't, not just facts or magic spells but deep, primeval knowledge about bodies, time, death, and the powers of reproduction. And they age and entropy in a way that mirrors the inevitable flow and decay of all things. They are connected to wild nature in the outdoors, away from the feminised domestic spaces of the house. Most monstrous of all is that they know their power."

excerpt from Women in the Picture: What Culture Does With Female Bodies by Catherine McCormack

oh thats hot as hell. if only sex was real

Swimming, One Day in August

by Mary Oliver

It is time now, I said, for the deepening and quieting of the spirit among the flux of happenings.

Something had pestered me so much I thought my heart would break. I mean, the mechanical part.

I went down in the afternoon to the sea which held me, until I grew easy.

About tomorrow, who knows anything. Except that it will be time, again, for the deepening and quieting of the spirit.

“When I was nine years old, the world, too, was nine years old. At least, there was no difference between us, no opposition, no distance. We just tumbled around from sunrise to sunset, earth and body as alike as two pennies. And there was never a harsh word between us, for the simple reason that there were no words at all between us; we never uttered a word to each other, the world and I. Our relationship was beyond language—and thus also beyond time. We were one big space (which was, of course, a very small space).”

— Inger Christensen, The Condition of Secrecy

Nosegaze Ambera Wellman

Sea Fever John Masefield

When I say I'm fr a freak this is what I mean

Art. Auguste Rodin, The eternal idol (detail)

My (?) Body by S. Bruzon