March 2009
Teresa Margolles Sierra
In the museum’s soaring hall children play under bubbles that come from Teresa Margolles’ piece En el aire (In the Air, 2003). Running, laughing, catching, they are fascinated by the glistening, delicate forms that float down from the ceiling and break up on their skin. A common motif in art history, the bubble has long been used as a memento mori, a reminder of the transitory nature of life. The...
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Dear Porn Industry,
porncull:
Could we, please, try doing without some or all of the following for once? Just give it a try, see if we can get by without:
Freakishly long fingernails
Excessive eye makeup
The “blowjob—>vaginal—>{anal—>}{blowjob—>}facial cumshot” formula
Sex always being male-initiated and controlled — come on, what’s wrong the lady jumping her guy or wrestling to get on top?
The...
“In your life, you meet people. Some you never think about again. Some, you...”
– The Wonder Years (via artinslowmotion) (via overflowing) (via uponthosestars) (via brokenmachine) (via pleasedo)
“You live like this, sheltered, in a delicate world, & you believe you are living. Then you read a book, or you take a trip, & you discover that you are not living, that you are hibernating. The symptoms of hibernating are easily detectable: first, restlessness. The second symptom (when hibernating becomes dangerous & might degenerate into death): absence of pleasure. That is all. It...
musicalust
music is his consolation, his true love. music is a goddess, her breasts his headphones, her moans his deep bass beats. her sensuality lies in the lyrics, the way she softly calls to him between stanzas. the jackets of cds barely conceal what’s beneath, spin her round and round until she’s so dizzy she can’t play anymore. no one really understands him, but he likes it that way....
Antilamentation, by Dorianne Laux
Regret nothing. Not the cruel novels you read to the end just to find out who killed the cook. Not the insipid movies that made you cry in the dark, in spite of your intelligence, your sophistication. Not the lover you left quivering in a hotel parking lot, the one you beat to the punchline, the door, or the one who left you in your red dress and shoes, the ones that crimped your toes, don’t...
Other Lives and Dimensions and Finally a Love Poem
My left hand will live longer than my right. The rivers of my palms tell me so. Never argue with rivers. Never expect your lives to finish at the same time. I think praying, I think clapping is how hands mourn. I think staying up and waiting for paintings to sigh is science. In another dimension this is exactly what’s happening, it’s what they write grants about: the chromodynamics of...
“I wish it could just be simple, like a retro pop song, “I want you to want me”....”
– John Tucker Must Die
“What came first, the music or the misery? People worry about kids playing with...”
– High Fidelity
Song
Inside every other is a you, and this you is what I would sing, if I had a voice to sing it, because the song would be poignant, pointed, unmistakeable, rejoicing, eternal and blue, the way a horn tails off into silence or an unlit room. And I’d hear the Black Sea as it shunted slowly to an fro, its joy made of desire, of loss, and sheer astonishment. Perhaps at its core, in its dying deep...
A hundred ways to say your name
I avoid speaking your name in conversation, throwing it to the air as if it were nothing more than an assumption of you; it is my last mode of defence. The last item of clothing to discard before I realise I’m naked in public. Because they can hear it in my voice. I know. Even in that one short syllable that means everything and nothing; your name is as common as you are rare. As easy as you are...
Purity.
My favourite time to write is in the late afternoon, weekdays, particularly Wednesdays. This is how I go about it: I take a fresh pot of tea into my study and close the door. Then I remove my clothes and leave them in a pile as if I had melted to death and my legacy consisted of only a white shirt, a pair of pants and a pot of cold tea. Then I remove my flesh and hang it over a chair. I slide it...
TO FUCK WITH LOVE PHASE III
to fuck with love to love with all the heat and wild of fuck the fever of your mouth devouring all my secrets and my alibis leaving me pure burned into oblivion the sweetness UNENDURABLE mouth barely touching mouth nipple to nipple we touched and were transfixed by a flow of energy beyond anything I have ever known we TOUCHED! and two days later my...
A Little Love Poem
Someone who hates scrabble. Someone who sleeps on her back near an open window in winter, her breath rolling like a river into night. Someone who wants me to wake her in the morning by reading ee cummings’ love poems, giving a small candle-flicker of a smile just before opening her eyes. Someone who appreciates the architecture of churches, but refuses to step inside. Someone who has...
“And they say there is no fate, but there is: it’s what you create. Even though the world goes on for eons and eons, you are only here for a fraction of a fraction of a second. Most of your time is spent being dead or not yet born. But while alive, you wait in vain, wasting years, for a phone call or a letter or a look from someone or something to make it all right. And it never comes...