a sea chanty of sorts

don’t speak - manchester orchestra &...

Wed, 08 May 2013 19:46:17 +1200

don’t speak - manchester orchestra & o’brother

this is so good

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Sat, 13 Apr 2013 16:48:39 +1200

trim milk is satan

Fri, 05 Apr 2013 17:45:52 +1300

trim milk is satan

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Thu, 04 Apr 2013 19:19:27 +1300

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Fri, 22 Mar 2013 11:31:55 +1300

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Fri, 22 Mar 2013 11:28:21 +1300

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Fri, 22 Mar 2013 11:25:55 +1300

"Since you ask, most days I cannot remember. I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage. Then the..."

Thu, 21 Mar 2013 17:56:02 +1300

“

Since you ask, most days I cannot remember.
I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage.
Then the almost unnameable lust returns.

Even then I have nothing against life.
I know well the grass blades you mention,
the furniture you have placed under the sun.

But suicides have a special language.
Like carpenters they want to know which tools.
They never ask why build.

”

- Anne Sexton, Wanting to Die. (via theburnthatkeepseverything)

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Wed, 20 Mar 2013 08:26:35 +1300

what it is like to live with an anxiety disorder

Fri, 15 Mar 2013 22:20:32 +1300

blankslate:

1.
no one ever congratulates you
for doing the really difficult things
like driving on the freeway or getting out of bed or
staying alive

2.
every friendship you make is a countdown
to the moment
when they finally can’t deal
with the missed calls and canceled hangouts
every friendship is on a timer
every friendship expires sooner,
not later

3.
you hear phrases like “bootstraps”
over and over
until you wish you had some to hang
yourself with

4.
you have to learn to simultaneously
relax your muscles
and move them with determination
you have to be in control
and you have to let go
at the same time
it’s enough to drive you into
a blubbering mess

5.
music is a conduit
crying is a conduit
your dad calling is a conduit
everything becomes a conduit
for either having or not having another panic attack

6.
you learn to stop making plans
because you’ll either disappoint yourself
or someone you care about or both

7.
you accept all of it

8.
you hope someday everyone else can
accept it too

"You’ll kiss them, even though you can see they’re sick. Even though you know they’ll make you sick."

Wed, 13 Mar 2013 18:38:23 +1300

“You’ll kiss them, even though you can see they’re sick. Even though you know they’ll make you sick.”

- The Worst I’ve Felt, I Wrote This For You . (via theburnthatkeepseverything)

this song reminds me of such a hard and beautiful time

Fri, 08 Mar 2013 16:46:49 +1300

this song reminds me of such a hard and beautiful time

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Fri, 08 Mar 2013 12:15:19 +1300

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Fri, 08 Mar 2013 11:45:49 +1300

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Fri, 08 Mar 2013 11:16:31 +1300

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Fri, 08 Mar 2013 11:04:39 +1300

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Fri, 08 Mar 2013 10:53:48 +1300

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Fri, 08 Mar 2013 10:52:21 +1300

"She is all there. She was melted carefully down for you and cast up from your childhood, cast up..."

Sun, 03 Mar 2013 20:00:27 +1300

“She is all there.
She was melted carefully down for you
and cast up from your childhood,
cast up from your one hundred favorite aggies.
She has always been there, my darling.
She is, in fact, exquisite.
Fireworks in the dull middle of February
and as real as a cast-iron pot.
Let’s face it, I have been momentary.
A luxury. A bright red sloop in the harbor.
My hair rising like smoke from the car window.
Littleneck clams out of season.
She is more than that. She is your have to have,
has grown you your practical your tropical growth.
This is not an experiment. She is all harmony.
She sees to oars and oarlocks for the dinghy,
has placed wild flowers at the window at breakfast,
sat by the potter’s wheel at midday,
set forth three children under the moon,
three cherubs drawn by Michelangelo,
done this with her legs spread out
in the terrible months in the chapel.
If you glance up, the children are there
like delicate balloons resting on the ceiling.
She has also carried each one down the hall
after supper, their heads privately bent,
two legs protesting, person to person,
her face flushed with a song and their little sleep.
I give you back your heart.
I give you permission -
for the fuse inside her, throbbing
angrily in the dirt, for the bitch in her
and the burying of her wound -
for the burying of her small red wound alive -
for the pale flickering flare under her ribs,
for the drunken sailor who waits in her left pulse,
for the mother’s knee, for the stocking,
for the garter belt, for the call -
the curious call
when you will burrow in arms and breasts
and tug at the orange ribbon in her hair
and answer the call, the curious call.
She is so naked and singular
She is the sum of yourself and your dream.
Climb her like a monument, step after step.
She is solid.
As for me, I am a watercolor.
I wash off.”

- “For My Lover, Returning To His Wife,” Anne Sexton (via commovente)

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Fri, 01 Mar 2013 17:26:25 +1300