1. She could see in the pout of the child’s lip that she was getting discouraged. She recognized that expression: it was one that she had donned so many times growing up. “Do not fret, young dear.” The child did not look amused or comforted. She knew what she was thinking: How could you possibly understand any of this? I have failed and that must mean that I am a failure. She smiled gently at the young girl. “Things come and things go. Whether these are happy or sad things, time eventually tells. But the present has a funny way of showing us an idea of what our future may have been had we gone down this route or that—you must not allow the present to mislead you in this way. You must not let the idea of a future to seduce you into bitterness. You must not let the lessons of your past wear the costume of mistakes shrouded in regret. Learn, child. Move forward. Grow. This is all a part of life. Tomorrow that pout could be turned around, stretching from ear to ear. You do not know, and in that there is beauty.” The woman watched as the child bit her lip in thought, taking in the words and accepting them as truth. And like a weight had been lifted, so did her face from the scrunch of discouragement.

    Free-write // 14 August 2014

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  2. The blank page, I had just forgotten all about. The bright white of it glares at me. How could you have? it demands, hurt, stung by the wasp of rejection.

    I come to it with desperate apologies. It was only for a minute, my darling.

    We’ve been here before: minutes turn to hours turn to days turn to never. When will I be your priority? I can’t just wait around forever.

    I hush its whispers, my caresses lessening its stiff tension, the humming of the keyboard softening its disappointment. I am devoted, I say and, then, I begin to show, silencing its fears of emptiness.

    I don’t mean to nag, it whispers.

    Not at all. I am devoted.

    Good, because I cannot just wait around forever, it says with less determined anger than the first time, letting me know it is beginning to accept my plea.

    I know. Of that you always remind me and I promise to never let you wait another day.

    Satisfied, the page fills up, smiling at me with pride and forgiveness. Unconditionally that page loves me, despite the blank glowers it sometimes emits. I know it is right to do so anyway.

    Its attitude toward and opinion of me changes completely, as soon as it has been filled.

    With a warm smile of letter-shaped black ink next to bright white eyes, it relaxes with satisfaction.

    As do I.

    Free-write // 15 January 2014

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  3. I am fascinated by the mystery creatures, the women with seductive allure so consuming you cannot help but follow them into fire, let them burn you up and smile slyly at your blackened ashes.

    Their big hair covers half of their face as they shoot you with teasing side eyes, rounding corners in slow motion. You know there cannot be good things around those corners, but still you follow. They put you in a trance and it is not about their thighs and hips and waists and chests and necks—their faces: it’s their expressions that say so much, that convince you to move your feet, surrendering your consultation with better logic.

    When they get you to where they want—the point where you are convinced that you know them through and through and you’ve never known such truth than what lay in their narrowed eyes—they speak with loud clarity: I will fucking eat you alive.

    And you knew your efforts were worth it. You knew, one way or another, you’d get inside.

    Free-write // 5 June 2014

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  4. The time had come when walking on the moon was the norm. They had ventured there many times before; their impressions colored their expectations. She donned her space suit, which was much sleeker than what you may be picturing with your primitive-times-filtered vision. He wore a matching suit.

    A picnic of sorts was what they had planned. Same as last time.

    But when they stepped from the craft, something felt different in the weightlessness. They could see hints of green on the blue earth, who had wasted all of her tears on the simultaneous neglect and greed of humans. In those days she gave warning signs: I cannot sustain your habits any longer; I’m serious this time—you’re killing me, ripping holes in my atmosphere, drilling me dry. I ca—her quivering lips lost their ability to form coherency. And then it was too late.

    Moisture formed at her bottom lid, holding the reflection of him seeing her for the first time again.

    Free-write // 30 May 2014

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  5. She felt like waste because all too often she had been left wasted on the ground. She did not realize that one day the earth would have its way with her, the compost of today made of yesterday’s worries and wash-ups giving life to tomorrow’s garden of cornucopia.

    She began as pale and gray as cement, but soon the wet soil covered her body and soul. Her skin became a rich brown, attractive to the seeds of potential that blew across her. The spider silk roots thickened with her blood and tears and sweat, sprouting green leaves that eventually covered the rich brown of her skin that still remembered the pale and gray. As the small plants grew into hardy bushes, she grew more strongly connected to the earth and, thus, her soul, herself. She soon let go of her fear of loneliness, finally understanding that she was never alone.

    Then the flowers bloomed and she was an array of colors and lessons learned, her smile reaching the sun.

    Free-write // 22 Apr 2014

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  6. The breeze whispered to the grass a soft suggestion. Obliging instantly, the blades bent at the knee, shivering with lust. They hadn’t been noticed for quite some time, but the breeze never neglected them for long.

    The clouds danced in the heavens, charged by the intimacy happening far below: a checkered blanket lay sprawled onto one small area of a backyard. A picnic is what it had started as, but the lust of the wind and the earth had a contagious effect. Instead of sneezing with reaction to the pollen, the lovers embraced and made crushing love to one another, their song rising up through the air.

    And in that very moment, spring let herself go all over the land, moistening and heating each of its occupants until they were quite satisfied with her.

    Free-write // 17 Apr 2014

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  7. Art has become too ironical and unintelligible for its own communicative good: It only speaks to those in the esoteric know — those willing to play the art game. Narcissistically fetishized, advanced art loses relational purpose. Caught up in itself, it forgets the audience, which is expected to accept it on its own terms, uncritically: Whatever common ground existed between advanced art and the audience collapses. Holding up a mirror to itself rather than to the audience — as art has done since Aristotle noted the cathartic effect of the insight it afforded — art loses its audience. Thus, advanced art loses its foundation in human experience.
    Taken from A Critical History of 20th-Century Art by Donald Kuspit. (via sleepyeyedbitch)
    Reblogged from: samueljamesobrien
  8. Frustration is like a tic, fattening up for as long as you will allow. You have control over your frustrations, but all too often it can be tempting to ignore the tic.

    Don’t ignore the tic. Blow out a lit match and burn that fucker off. There is no reason to hesitate in doing so. The moment you hesitate is the moment you bring your frustrations onto yourself. Confront the issue. Deal with it. Expel it.

    You are not doing the tic a favor by allowing it to suck you dry. He’ll be spoilt and lose the drive to find a new host by that point. You’ll kill each other if you don’t just confront the issue at hand. You cannot allow your fear to confront the tic to keep you from protecting yourself and demanding what you deserve: a parasite free life.

    So just go on and do it. Blow out a lit match and burn that fucker off.

    Free-write // 19 Jan 2014

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  9. A Very Molly Christmas, 2013 Edition

    Molly loves Christmas. If you think I’m just some crazy owner projecting personifications onto my pup, you’re mistaken (well, in this instance anyway). In the days leading up to Christmas, Molly acts like her normal self. But something happens on Christmas Day: she just lights up at no obvious cue. I don’t know how she knows it, but she does. She waits patiently to be handed her present, then goes at it. The first year I thought it was a fluke, but every year after I’m surprised all over again. (Warning: Please excuse my high-pitched voice.)

    Starring: Molly
    Co-starring: Melanie (human), Alabama (lil’un), Gracie (golden), Father (other voice), Momma (other voice 2), Brother (mystery hand trying to steal Moll’s toy)
    Filming: James

  10. What engineering boyfriends do for the holidays (2013 edition).


head of flowers

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