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Fiction Snippet #13

Why should skin-on-skin make my heart beat wildly
When I’ve felt thousands of others’ before this
On train rides in morning commutes
I’ve felt inches worth of other people’s on mine

but this…

I only feel your lips on mine
and already I feel like you’ve touched all of me
How could this small amount of pressure
amount to the twisting of my stomach
to the sweeping away of my thoughts
like how I want you to sweep away the table behind me
and push me down against it

Who set fire to my cheeks?
The excitement of my heart beats,
"More! More!"
And I incline myself to let my skin
feel more of your skin

Your fingers in my hair
their tips stroking my neck
Your lips on my lips
Your tongue on my tongue
These clothes are waste

Make me forget which skin is mine.

jayjage:

- Linda Pastan, “The Five Stages of Grief”

"Grief is a circular staircase." 
Every time I feel like I’ve accepted your death, I go right back into Denial.

brightwalldarkroom:

Brianna Ashby on Fried Green Tomatoes (1991):
“My mother died on June 17, 2000, the morning of my high school graduation. I was standing barefoot in my best friend’s kitchen as my grandmother tried to lie to me over the phone, her voice twice it’s normal pitch and entirely lacking it’s customary softness and sparkle. Her forced nonchalance made my knees buckle, and the lump in my throat had me gasping for air even before she could finally bring herself to say the word, that word. And then, the lightning strike. White light, white heat. Blindness. The next thing I remember I was shifting anxiously in my plastic folding chair, waiting for my name to come over the microphone, cursing the cap and gown I could have sworn were made of lead. I’m still surprised I heard my name at all. 
I received a standing ovation when I crossed the stage to claim my diploma—the audience having been led through a moment of silence in my mother’s honor just a few minutes prior—but I was so focused on simply trying to keep my atoms from scattering themselves in all directions that I had no idea. The whiteness blanketed everything; I saw, but I couldn’t see. My world came to a grinding halt, even as things continued to move around me as they always had, their rhythms unchanged. How could everything be so completely different and yet entirely the same? I was a floe of ice drifting aimlessly on a shifting sea.
A heart can be broken, but it will keep beating just the same.
For years I laid awake at night, imagining the world with my mother still in it. I had prosaic dreams where she’d call me on the phone to ask a simple question, or I’d walk by our kitchen and see her standing over the stove. With little effort at all I could vividly conjure up her image, picturing the way her nose wrinkled when she laughed, or the way she looked when she was perched on the couch, engrossed in a book. The stunning ease with which I could reproduce it all made it difficult to accept that it was nothing more than a composite of moments already spent. The realization that I would never again see the face of someone I loved so fiercely nearly defied comprehension. When someone is so deeply alive in your heart, how can they possibly be dead?”
—
This is an excerpt from the current issue of Bright Wall/Dark Room magazine. To read the rest of this essay, purchase a copy of the issue for $2, or subscribe online now. 

brightwalldarkroom:

Brianna Ashby on Fried Green Tomatoes (1991):

My mother died on June 17, 2000, the morning of my high school graduation. I was standing barefoot in my best friend’s kitchen as my grandmother tried to lie to me over the phone, her voice twice it’s normal pitch and entirely lacking it’s customary softness and sparkle. Her forced nonchalance made my knees buckle, and the lump in my throat had me gasping for air even before she could finally bring herself to say the word, that word. And then, the lightning strike. White light, white heat. Blindness. The next thing I remember I was shifting anxiously in my plastic folding chair, waiting for my name to come over the microphone, cursing the cap and gown I could have sworn were made of lead. I’m still surprised I heard my name at all.

I received a standing ovation when I crossed the stage to claim my diploma—the audience having been led through a moment of silence in my mother’s honor just a few minutes prior—but I was so focused on simply trying to keep my atoms from scattering themselves in all directions that I had no idea. The whiteness blanketed everything; I saw, but I couldn’t see. My world came to a grinding halt, even as things continued to move around me as they always had, their rhythms unchanged. How could everything be so completely different and yet entirely the same? I was a floe of ice drifting aimlessly on a shifting sea.

A heart can be broken, but it will keep beating just the same.

For years I laid awake at night, imagining the world with my mother still in it. I had prosaic dreams where she’d call me on the phone to ask a simple question, or I’d walk by our kitchen and see her standing over the stove. With little effort at all I could vividly conjure up her image, picturing the way her nose wrinkled when she laughed, or the way she looked when she was perched on the couch, engrossed in a book. The stunning ease with which I could reproduce it all made it difficult to accept that it was nothing more than a composite of moments already spent. The realization that I would never again see the face of someone I loved so fiercely nearly defied comprehension. When someone is so deeply alive in your heart, how can they possibly be dead?”

This is an excerpt from the current issue of Bright Wall/Dark Room magazine. To read the rest of this essay, purchase a copy of the issue for $2, or subscribe online now. 

"

Do you take pride in your hurt? Does it make you seem large and tragic? …Well, think about it. Maybe you’re playing a part on a great stage with only yourself as audience.

"

-  John Steinbeck, East of Eden (via berlinart-parasites)

"

…simply because we had no choice: our lives had already been irreparably affected by homosexuality, and there was really no way around we cold write except in and through our gayness.

"

-  

J. Neil Garcia’s introduction to Ladlad 2: An Anthology of Philippine Gay Writing

I came actross this book in a book sale held in my college’s building. Somehow, it sparked my interest as I have been growing curious in the creation and reinforcement of culture, queer or not, in the Philippine society. So far, it’s been an interesting read. Almost brutally honest  depiction or narrative of a part of the homosexuality culture in the Philippines.

bake-me-cupcakes:

love this.

bake-me-cupcakes:

love this.

biscuitsarenice:

We Can’t Get Out Of The Bedroom Now.

Shirley Maclaine on Parkinson in 1975.

Michael Parkinson asked the actress Bette Davis a similar question in the same year here