19.5.11

the idiosyncrasies of, ah!, oh, love --

three
days,

alone with Nicholas doing things that people do. We enjoy films very much, it seems; along with bike-riding in the city and food.

I remember I used to dream about having days like these.

And he can bury his nose in a cup of coffee, listening to records, as I sweep the floor looking ragged, but things feel more comfortable than they did a month ago.

Didn't ever believe I'd be strong enough for someone else, either, much less his actual counterpart. Comes down to't, nothing compares. We get rid of shit, stuff disappears, and a void can't be spoken of.

three
days,

alone with Nicholas in our apartment and
out of our apartment, always
in one another's space
and
the better
for it.

16.5.11

aina ambar

"holy fate"

Just a post of pictures. An ongoing preoccupation with Tolkien and fantasy writing, upheavals of nostalgia, and the desire to bury my nose in The Silmarillion has led to an infrequent re-visitation of some of my favorite Tolkien-inspired paintings.

Gladriel, Bros. Hildebrandt

The Oliphaunt, Inger Edelfeldt

Eowin et le Seigneur des Nazguls, John Howe

Mordor, Pauline Baynes

Ulmo, Roger Garland

It does not surprise me that I'd prefer to live in this world. Beautiful creatures.

4.5.11

ten milligrams

Her hair is growing. She longs to bunch it up in a tight-loose bun on the very top of her head. At least two more months.

As a child she never cared about it. Pictures of five-year-old-her in mary-janes and natural, abundant curls abound, and she's regretful because her hair's so unlike that now, not the color of corn but the color of mud. There's kink and wave, but no serious curl. 

She cuts it because she can and because it is in so many ways thrilling. And although she is not unwise to high fashion and underground aesthetics, the high means so much more. With her approval negative pleasure rules her life in various ways and now that age creeps slowly but methodically in an upward trend more permanent and painful (erotic) modifications are her preference. At night she dreams about New Zealand and Maori tattooing traditions and wonders how long it might take to ink the entire right-side of her ribcage, and whether or not she could stand the free form needle for hours at a time, and how long it might take, because she secretly drools over the idea of prolonged, purposeful wounding.

Glorification of her body.

Physical enlightenment.