A siren, a female being made of liquid stars and all the unnecessary wars. A beauty that is overpowered by rejection an overdose of a vitamin…
Well, I’m begged for redemption only i lure to self destruction.
I sing about broken promises that lasts a lifetime and fears that grow as you do... grow viscously, and as big as the void an emotionally absent parent can leave behind in you.
I’m one year closer to my mid twenties It took me a life time to realize It’s not love that I’ve been starved from
It’s the comfort of feeling seen, without dressing myself up with all the glamorous words that I weighed myself down with since i was a child
forced to communicate; only to please. Now I sing, and it’s out of tune but I seduce and I ruin.
I was loved growing up, i felt so even when no one ever gave me a definition to what love really means.
Maybe they didn’t even know it was missing.
I felt indestructible so I kept stripping my love from misconceptions; only to be left with suffering
Now I know better. It’s either leaving or being left and both in a way are synonyms of love.
the residual of that love is almost nonexistent among the memories that resemble a never ending internal bleeding.
That being said, tragedies stands out more and i use them like bookmarks to my memories.
So i love; and i leave.
I cut into myself with my own teeth dissecting the pieces with my tongue knowing very well how much it will hurt me to taste something that i don’t recognize…
I spend most of my hours dwelling on all the parts of me that make me a duplication of my mother
hypocritically i pack them in the carry on bag that’s always open on my bedroom floor
So ready to leave; just like my father. he emptied more of me in his bags every weekend for business trips
Carving unintentional hollows and leaving them for my mother to fill.
I thought he was the one sacrificing himself, until I noticed that alot of my missing pieces are still under his bed.
Mama doesn’t like it when I point out where my father went wrong she loves him too much, and i .. i reflect that love; by leaving
I know they did their best molding me into a human that knows how to survive, but that’s all I know now.
I don’t understand affection, nor how to accept it in my body.
Not even when I crave it; i suspect it’s because I’m too full of myself and if I feel this way… why would I expect anyone to carve themselves out to fit me in ?
Anyway, I don’t know how to ask women for acceptance and men can’t stand me cause I don’t flatter them
Love sounds like a curse to me.
What if I loved for all the wrong reasons?
my body understands the mechanisms to create another life from love, but i don’t.
I fear that the taste of motherhood will resemble that of a defense mechanism.
•••
•Quotes: Alexander Pushkin/George Eliot/ Leo Tolstoy/ Chris Cleave/Clarice Lispector/ Anne Carson/ Kiki Nicole/ Richard Siken/ Lidia Yuknavitch/ Sylvia Plath/ Franz Kafka
•Original context: Sinligh
•Art reference:
1. A young beauty reclining on a bed By Enjolras Delphin. 2. Details of John William Godward's: Eurypyle (1921) 3. Details of John William Godward's: Eurypyle(1921) 4. Painting by Roberto Ferri (details). 5. The Table (1971-80) Antonio Lopez Garcia. 6. Painting by Alex Venezia. 7. Narzissin by Josef Fischnaller. 8. Painting by Valeria Duca. 9. Painting by Ricky Mujica.
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Last Saturday,
I had the most incredible honor & experience of watching Heilung.
This was my first ritual to attend.
The ritual was spectacular and amazing.
But I’m sadden that I won’t be attending more rituals when there here in the US because this is their last time touring the US.
Though I’m sad that there won’t be anymore rituals in the US but I can entirely say that this was an honor of seeing them live.
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poems I loved in december
Paruyr Sevak, "To Go Mad"
Anne Sexton, "December 18th"
Ted Hughes, "Lovesong"
Chris Abani, "Ritual is Journey"
Franz Wright, "Untitled"
Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, "A Prayer"
Willie Perdomo, "Maybe Under Some Other Sky"
Osip Mandelstam,'You took away all the oceans and all the room', (translated by Clarence Brown and W. S. Merwin)
Osip Mandelstam, "Tenderer than tender" transl. D. Smirnov-Sadovsky
Richard Siken, "Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out"
Michael Miller, "December"
Vladimir Mayakovsky, "A Cloud in Trousers"
Mohja Kahf, “Most Wanted”
Louise Glück, "Winter Recipes from the Collective"
Vladimir Mayakovsky, "Listen"
Fear, Czesław Miłosz, Robert Hass (translator)
Hope, Czesław Miłosz, Robert Hass (translator)
Charles Bukowski, "a vote for the gentle light"
Marina Tsvetaeva, "I Opened My Veins" (translated by Elaine Feinstein)
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They never brought Mahar back from the dead
I have come across a lot of people who don't actually understand what happened in that scene in episode 10 where the kids planned to bring Mahar back to confront Kanduu. The fact is, they NEVER brought him back.
Kanduu was brought back because Mr. Bratt dug up his coffin and his soul returned to his body from Slappy. He WAS literally brought back to life. The kids and Mr. Bratt did not have time to go and find Mahar's body, in fact, he was probably buried somewhere else and nowhere near where they were. Instead, Margot or Mr. Bratt likely had to find a spell in Kanduu's book, and it ended up being the SAME spell that Kanduu used to turn people into living dummies.
Much like how the spell made Kanduu appear to the kids as people they knew - such as Lucas' father, Margot's mother, etc - the spell caused Mr. Bratt to appear as Mahar, like an illusion. Mr. Bratt - pretending to be Mahar - stated that he made a mistake when he stopped Kanduu performing the ritual last time, and he stated this time he wants to fix his mistake. The kids protest, trying to stop him, but this is all an act, they know EXACTLY what is going on, and they're planning for this to happen.
I also get the feeling that Kanduu knew all along they were using his magic against him here, even though he looked somewhat shocked at seeing Mahar again, I think he was sort of playing along too, because he knew the spell would not work on him.
Also, it was not Kanduu's wish for Mahar to come back from the dead, rather it was simply his desire for Mahar to trust what he was doing was necessary.
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Franz Villier / Chris Marker, Le Petit Cinema des rues ou Les Mystéres de Lisbonne, 1957
https://www.publico.pt/2012/08/06/jornal/os-misterios-de-25020100
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