THE BETWIXT AND THE BETWEEN
This story begins in the middle - the middle of the desert. And the end, my last days in California. Ominous clouds overhead; as above, so below. I stare down at the dusty maps clenched in my hand. A code written in blood on what looks like pages torn from old anatomy textbooks. The road sings a siren song. I am ready, I am ruthless. The only thing I believe in saying goodbye to is any semblance of normality. The only thing I’m certain about is that my life will never be predictable again. I could be anywhere a year from now. But that’s not the point. This is.
TREASURE MAP (YR HEART)
soundcloud teaser for the spotify haters
1 week ago
We’ve played a dangerous game and there’s nowhere else to go. You’re the drug, dance is the delivery. Eyes closed, I can almost see you. Don’t move.
Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night. I miss you like hell.
— Edna St. Vincent Millay
words + full mix below by alpha:
i am nothing but a complex combination of atoms, just like everything else around us. and you are nothing but energy compressing and propagating through air.
together we invented time travel, teletransportation, non-assisted flying, telepathy, psychokinesis and love. we became ether and light, created entire new worlds from our minds only, transformed moments into hours and produced films like the old french classics. as unbelievable as it sounds, we did all of this while dancing.
i know we are atoms and energy, but when we close our eyes… that’s a whole different story.
1 week ago
"Meaning is why we evolve. Meaning is us. We are meaning." — Ayoub Qanir
2 weeks ago1 note
I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure of the landscape – the loneliness of it, the dead feeling of winter. Something waits beneath it, the whole story doesn’t show.
— Andrew Wyeth
Once more around the sun, well into deep winter. Underneath the silence and darkness in the garden of my soul is the slow magic of dormant things waiting for the light. Buried under snowdrifts and white feather blankets with only words for companions, I wait for a voice from the heart of winter. If you’re absolutely still you can almost hear my heart beating.
Isaac Levitan, Forest in Winter
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
— Robert Frost, from ‘Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening’
1 month ago1 note
Hearts are wild creatures, that’s why our ribs are cages. — Elalusz
I was satisfied with haiku until I met you,
jar of octopus, cuckoo’s cry, 5-7-5,
but now I want a Russian novel,
a 50-page description of you sleeping,
another 75 of what you think staring out
a window. I don’t care about the plot
although I suppose there will have to be one,
the usual separation of the lovers, turbulent
seas, danger of decommission in spite
of constant war, time in gulps and glitches
passing, squibs of threnody, a fallen nest,
speckled eggs somehow uncrushed, the sled
outracing the wolves on the steppes, the huge
glittering ball where all that matters
is a kiss at the end of a dark hall.
At dawn the officers ride back to the garrison,
one without a glove, the entire last chapter
about a necklace that couldn’t be worn
inherited by a great-niece
along with the love letters bound in silk. — Dean Young
On the brink of something and the end of nothing. Drifting on a dark sea of melancholy, caught between waiting and wanting. I wish I was a poet so I could coax visions from behind my eyelids and let them loose like butterflies in the snow, so I could unchain spirit from silence and paint in all the colors that love scattered madly inside me. I’m on the heels of ecstasy, running from the rift in my heart. I hope you’ll meet me on the other side.
If you ever ask me how many times you’ve crossed my mind, I would say once. Because you came, and never left. — Ritu Ghatourey
If you do not love me, I shall not be loved.
If I do not love you, I shall not love. — Samuel Beckett
1 month ago1 note
a fire to light the longest night of the year
sky’s on fire, smoke in my lungs
i’m your slain unicorn
made my grave in darkest forest
blood on birch bark
in my dreams we’re chasing alien sunsets
and I wake up lying in shards of glass
reaching for your hand in the dark
the click of a lighter on repeat
because darling you started a fire
and every time I see something beautiful
i burn a little more
2 months ago
3 months ago
The mind says ‘mistake. regret. punishment.’
The heart speaks ‘long. ache. grieve’
The body pulses ‘want. want. want’
Yoga answers ‘you are nothing but your breath. exhale’
The legs scream ‘go. run. escape’
The ceiling fan whispers ‘you are still here’
The critic declares ‘not enough. do more’
The practice replies ‘exactly right. infinitely curious. eternally gentle’
The hips protest ‘no. I can’t’
Yoga says ‘release the stories. they do not serve’
The hands grasp ‘hold tight. don’t let go’
The pose demands ‘loosen. relinquish. release’
The tension says ‘do not move’
The breath says ‘you are free’
The habit pushes ‘control’
The mantra answers ‘surrender’
The spirit cries ‘scared. so scared’
The music sings ‘every little thing’s gonna be alright’
The head whispers ‘afraid of shadows’
Yoga answers ‘you are nothing but light’
The muscles complain ‘so tired’
Savasana responds ‘rest now. be still.’
The fear says ‘ordinary’
Namaste reminds ‘divine. divine. divine’
The self says ‘I am here’
Yoga says ‘yes, you are’
3 months ago
October playlist: ☛ WEIRD TWITTER COVEN ☚
For all your #cuteandcreepy Halloween needs. This playlist is a bit self-indulgent — I could do this in my sleep, being a big fan of witch house back in the day — but it has its roots in an essay I encountered earlier this year, in which Pam Grossman of Phantasmaphile named 2013 the Year of the Witch:
The numerological symbolism was obvious of course: 13 moons in a year, 13 fertility cycles, 13 witches in a coven. It’s a number considered unlucky and unlovely for so long, we’ve seemed to have forgotten why, while still obliterating it from our tallest buildings. And so it’s a number inherently bound up in feminine magic, and thus represents a deification of something persecuted; a profanity resacralized, unsullied and crowned.
The archetype of the witch is long overdue for celebration. Daughters, mothers, queens, virgins, wives, et al. derive meaning from their relation to another person. Witches, on the other hand, have power on their own terms. They create. They praise. They commune with nature / Spirit / God/dess / Choose-your-own-semantics, freely, and free of any mediator. But most importantly: they make things happen. The best definition of magic I’ve been able to come up with is “symbolic action with intent” – “action” being the operative word. Witches are midwives to metamorphosis. They are magical women, and they, quite literally, change the world.
So for 2013, I wish you more witching. More opportunities to claim your power, to slough off old skin, to ritualize your life. May your year have you feeling more attuned to the rhythms of nature, more connected to one another, and more plugged into planet and purpose. The apocalypse has happened, my friends, and it’s still happening. Our task at hand is to bring about the end of the old world, but then to create something vital and shining and new. Instead of four horses, we’re riding in on brooms.
This proclamation resonated so deeply with me that the obvious thing to do at the time was to make a digital shrine to the idea. And invoke the power of the witch in my own reality. Not surprising, then, that the most accurate descriptor of my personal 2013 would be awakening. I’ve always been drawn to the magical and the mystical, symbols, archetypes, the lot. But this year I made a more official foray into the world of the occult, esoteric studies and the paranormal, lurking in dark corners like The Midnight Archive, Abraxas Journal, and Occult of Personality, Once you go down that path, well, you start seeing magic everywhere. (don’t worry Mom, being a witch is more about being best friends with nature and your own divine self than it is about conducting blood rituals in the woods at night).
4 months ago1 note
The equinox seems as good a time as any to touch on a subject that has occupied my thoughts for quite some time now. In truth, it’s more of a constellation of observations and musings that cannot easily be distilled into a single idea.
It has become painfully obvious to me that when we deny nature, we deny our own nature — the essence of our being that is gloriously alive, so pulsing with light that to deny it is to live in the dark. By denial I am referring to the entire spectrum of unsustainable behaviors and attitudes towards nature that the culture encourages, from indifference, ignorance and apathy to domination and opposition.
I’ve always been acutely attuned to the subtle signs that mark the approach of a new season. This threshold is a powerful time of creative renewal, a slow exhalation of the planetary consciousness. There’s always that first hint of sap and smoke in the air and the aroma of decaying leaves; slow drips falling on a mossy forest floor; a quiet gathering of strength and turning inward as the leaves crisp like gilded paper, falling on hungry damp earth in which myriad creatures burrow deeper, dreaming of winter. In Sweden the change was much more pronounced. I remember cycling past hedges lit from within like fire; picking wild green apples off the tree below my window; leaving classes in the gloaming, ravens gathering in the bare branches for their own secret councils.
Now, so distant from all that (domesticated) beauty, I crave wilderness. I feel starved for it, homesick for a landscape I never even knew.
5 months ago3 notes