18 . 09 . 14 about me    +54991

I’ve been showing petrichorals around my small corner of South Wales these last two days and I don’t know if it’s seeing it through a stranger’s eyes or maybe just because London is over and this is home again (for now, briefly), but everything seems different, softer, less terrifying. Today we drove to the coast, still wild and craggy and covered with gorse flowers that you crush coconut-smelling in your hands, just as it was a hundred, three hundred years ago, up past Sgêr house that’s yellow too like another eruption of hardy shrub on the treeless land (have you noticed how all the flowers by the sea are yellow; and their leaves so dark green; and how they stand up against the wind and seem to grow from nothing?) And in the rocks below the crannies where Elizabeth, ghost who haunts that yellow building that stands where no building reasonably should - there, where she would store her most precious things (and in those same rocks smugglers would have hidden treasures; and on that sand ships were wrecked and jewels sunk beneath stones). It smells of factories, that coast, that air - it has for eight, ten generations, since Elizabeth’s time. And now in the night you can see the plumes of smoke lit up bright like a sleeping dragon’s nest and you can smell the same air: salt and steel.

The train conductor called me bach yesterday, speeding across the Severn Bridge. It’s Welsh for small, a bit like love, and makes me think of wooden chairs and hearths. There’s a warmth in Welsh words; the warmth of words being raised from a cooling grate, the warmth of disturbed sparks and old fire stories. A few hours before I’d been watching Pride in an almost-empty cinema in England, gone in without realising where it was set, and when they drove into the street my heart moved because those are my streets (grey on grey on grey against a mound of black; a country more defined by what’s inside its ground than on top of it). And when they sang Bread and Roses in the workingmen’s hall I couldn’t stop crying and Katie asked if they still do that in Wales, all sing like that and I said “Not any more, not since the mines closed.” I don’t mean to sound so sentimental, so reverent and nationalistic about a time that I didn’t see but I’ve seen the rubble. I’d never seen what came before: the dying breaths before it got torn down and left the land with open wounds and the people, too.

Rookie, The Season of the Witch

For readings on the correlation in horror between puberty and the monstrous, see:

(via bluntlyblue)

❝ All of this is typical girl-fear. Once you realize that The Exorcist is, essentially, the story of a 12-year-old who starts cussing, masturbating, and disobeying her mother—in other words, going through puberty—it becomes apparent to the feminist-minded viewer why two adult men are called in to slap her around for much of the third act. People are convinced that something spooky is going on with girls; that, once they reach a certain age, they lose their adorable innocence and start tapping into something powerful and forbidden. Little girls are sugar and spice, but women are just plain scary. And the moment a girl becomes a woman is the moment you fear her most. Which explains why the culture keeps telling this story. ❞
Anne Carson, Antigonick
❝ Blessed be they whose lives do not taste of evil
but if some god shakes your house
ruin arrives
ruin does not leave
it comes tolling over the generations
it comes rolling the black night salt up from the ocean floor
and all your thrashed coasts groan ❞
Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha, “A Time to Hole Up And a Time to Kick Ass” in We Don’t Need Another Wave 
❝ What counts as activism? Why didn’t the kind of emotional self-care me and my girls were doing—talking to each other about all the fucked-up shit we were going through as brown girls—count? Why didn’t my best friend driving her elderly East African mother to the doctor and renegotiating her way through the layers of the racist, sexist, condescending bullshit medical system count as activism? Did staying alive count as activism? Did re-learning Tamil, one of my Sri Lankan family’s languages, count? Did cooking good Sri Lankan food and learning how to cook those recipes I didn’t have female family members around to teach me count? As a South Asian femme immigrant who was having a shitty week, did shopping at the MAC counter and finding the perfect shade of fuchsia lip gloss for my milk-tea skin count? ❞

nereiids:

THE WAY THE PAGAN GODS ARE HALF REMEMBERED HERE

FIRE POEM, Berlin || Robert Montgomery

Sophocles, Antigone
❝ Where is the equal of Love?
Where is the battle he cannot win,
The power he cannot outmatch?
In the farthest corners of earth, in the midst of the sea,
He is there; he is here
In the bloom of a fair face
Lying in wait;
And the grip of his madness
Spares not god or man ❞

For Women Who Are Difficult to Love - Warsan Shire

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you are a horse running alone
and he tries to tame you
compares you to an impossible highway
to a burning house

gierlichmypussy:

let’s congratulate the people who made it through school but let’s also congratulate the people who knew it wasn’t right for them and got out.

Joan of Arc by Albert Lynch (1851-1912)

engraving from Figaro Illustre magazine, 1903

Anonymous asked: Can I ask you advices or reads about keeping a diary? After my depression kinda clamed down a little I regretted the fact that I never kept a diary. I lost a lot of what I was and I feel empty. I want to write down what I've become or how I feel since then so I can go back to that when I'm feeling lost again but I don't know how. I really don't want to feel that way again.

I blogged all through the worst of my depression and I’m glad it’s there because I have a slightly morbid curiosity with that time, particularly because I don’t remember any of it. I think it’s in the nature of depression to make you forget about it afterwards, and if you’ve been there for a long time, yeah, it feels like a big part of your history has been ripped away. I think it’s worth remembering, though, that the bit that’s missing wasn’t you anyway. it’s not your history, it’s a period of time that you were ill and the illness was almost everything you had. you lost a lot of who you were because of the depression, not because you can’t remember.

I think one of the hardest things about recovery - from any mental illness - is figuring out who you are afterwards. you’ve got to construct a whole new person from the ashes and there’s bound to be a feeling of discontinuity and loss, but you can’t get back the person you were before. I’ve tried, but it’s impossible and stressful and in my case usually makes me dissociate. so maybe it’s a blessing that you didn’t keep a diary. start one now, maybe - write about the present and the future and work on making yourself feel whole without your depression. I think if you live in fear of relapse or you’re always thinking about how it happened and why, you’re more likely to find yourself back there.

Anonymous asked: You're a marvelous creature & so so interesting! You're doing fine.

thank you kind anonymous person I’m going to try to believe you (and sleep… how is it 5am…)

Susan Sontag, The Rolling Stone Interview 
❝ One of my oldest crusades is against the distinction between thought and feeling, which is really the basis of all anti-intellectual views: the heart and the head, thinking and feeling, fantasy and judgment… and I don’t believe it’s true… I have the impression that thinking is a form of feeling and that feeling is a form of thinking. ❞

I’m having one of those 3am skin-crawling panics where everything feels uncomfortable and wrong. I’ve deleted lots of recent posts on my blog because they didn’t look right and were making me anxious. Sentence structure is making me anxious. (I feel completely ridiculous, I’m sorry. I’m panicking about whether to use capital letters or not. I’m panicking about parentheses.) Rambling:

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You're In A Bad Way - Saint Etienne

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scudder47:

Saint Etienne - You’re In a Bad Way