Thrifted for two hours and I can’t even believe everything that I got. Steinbeck’s East of Eden, The Selected Poems of William Butler Yeats, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Holmes by “John Watson” dedicated to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, another older copy of A Tale of Two Cities by Dickens, Eight Tales of Terror by Edgar Allan Poe, Beloved by Toni Morrison, This Side of Paradise by Fitzgerald, a collection of Rudyard Kipling’s poetry, A Room Without a View by E. M. Forster, Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert, The Country of the Blind and other Stories by H. G. Wells, a giant old, beautiful copy of the Complete Works of William Shakespeare (again), a book on writing about film, The Amityville Horror by Jay Anson, another older copy of Crime and Punishment, a collection of speeches that changed the world, and a strange little book called What Mrs. Eddy said to Arthur Brisbane. Oh, and a print of Monet and one of Van Gogh, and a bunch of vinyls, all for less than $22 (and the majority of them are old and hardcovers). It’s going to take the rest of my life to read all the books I’ve bought. This is the greatest.
^ this is my blog full of things i like.
my other blog, correroja, is full of words and images i find lovely.
feel free to follow them (vancouver, and those two) if you’d like xx
work has been going wonderfully. yes its tiresome but i’ve been able to save up quite a bit and i hope to do the same over winter break. my coworkers are fantastic and working with children every day is pretty great. things are looking up. school’s starting back up soon - i’m going to do everything in my power to pull straight a’s again, write as much as humanly possible and become more involved in the art/writing/music scene. oh, and more publishing and working on my novel.
sidenote: met a mom and her little son at work, got to talking, gave her my contact information. her daughter is in high school, is about to have the same shoulder surgery i had (mine was from volleyball, hers tennis) and she is an aspiring writer. so she’s going to come meet me after work or on my break and im going to do what i can to help her feel better about the surgery and hopefully become a mentor for her work. i’m way excited to meet her. she sounds bunches like me when i was in hs and i wouldve given anything to have someone help me with all that way back when.
positive vibes all around. xx
We’d lost sight of ourselves that afternoon amongst the poppies of Gloucestershire. We’d lain – lain for what seemed like ages, pale limbs engulfed in a sea of red. The varying hues of the surrounding atmosphere dripped like watered-down acrylics, painted hills that mimicked the curvature of your spine.
You’d taken me in your arms, head nuzzled against your bare chest. With the hand of a surgeon and heart of a poet, you’d learnt me; memorized the contour of my mouth and read my every bone as if it were braille.
You’d made wishes with your fingertips, a new promise with every caress. Enveloped by the evening sky, I was certain nothing was brighter in the world than that which you held in the confines of your chest.
I’d brushed my lips between your shoulder blades as if I were charting the constellations; Caelum and Cancer, Columba and Cornis, every star with more ardor than the last. In that moment, I had discovered more on the maps of your flesh than in any book I had clutched to my chest. It seemed fitting, for all you had wanted to be was the sky.
turn me inside-out and i will show you
every limb torn from its socket
in an attempt to hold you,
make you stay.
i will point out scars like a trail -
i am breadcrumbs and leaky faucets,
black lung and
vacant apartment buildings.
take my spine and split me down the center,
crack me open to your favorite page -
read the passages that
pulse through my veins and
quote me as if the words you
ground between your teeth sharpened
were a city of gold, a fountain of youth.
read me to your children, grandchildren
i dare you -
tell them of the woman you ransacked
like a village,
how you set fire to her soul and
watched her burn like salem.
i pray you remember
as elephants do
that the words from your lips are
tainted - red,
and that the monsters in your favorite books
are much less frightening
than the man who reads of them.
Well, I’m a bit out of touch because I became “involved” last fall around November - December when I was posting poetry constantly but here are some suggestions, love.
And to all writers reading this, feel free to follow Kesia! She’s a beautiful soul and she writes absolutely lovely.
Good luck, dear. You’re already considered my friend xx
Flower: Do you like how you are as a person?
Physically, of course not. Who I am on the inside, I’m not sure. I’d like to say yes, it was my firs thought, but I don’t feel it’s appropriate to say that I do.
Vine: Do you have any bad habits?
Yes. I have a number of them.
I’m working toward dealing with all of these things and then some. It’s a day-to-day process. It’s a constant cycle of trying to get better and only getting worse, but I know things won’t always be this way.
It’s a process. I’ll get better. We all will.
If anyone happens to read this and ever needs someone to talk to about anything I’ve mentioned, or anything in general, I’d be more than willing to talk and help.
Thank you, dear. All the best, take care.
Turning a giant piece of cardboard into something rad Part I & II.
Cardboard, acrylic paint.
My hand is about to fall off.
Got the summer job at Nordstrom.
Celebratory lunch with Bret, the most perfect man on Earth.
Two or so weeks ago, it was pouring out and it was around 11 PM. I sat in bed contemplating whether I should remain wrapped in blankets or run outside and play in the rain. I thought about it for a few minutes, threw on a cami and shorts and skipped out the front door onto the driveway. I just stood and turned about in circles looking up at this dark, dark sky and it - it overwhelmed me. I couldn’t tell you prior to that moment when I’d last stood or even felt rain without trying to run from it. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always enjoyed the rain, but I’d forgotten what it felt like - what it really felt like.
A few minutes later, two of my siblings came out and reprimanded me, assuming there was an ulterior motive to my wanting to play in the rain. So, the moment was cut short.
I didn’t exactly fall in love with myself that night, but I have a newfound appreciation for the exquisite, quiet beauty in everydayness. And for that, I am eternally grateful.
vicodin and think
the world will forget that
your hands are
red heads of matchsticks
waiting for friction.
hills like white elephants and watercolor sky
penned hemingway between sips of scotch one evening.
through lens to a landscape -
polaroid-preserve nature; a fine moment indeed.
to charred mountain-range faces,
to brooks silenced in concrete from…
and i can no
longer tell if
my heart races from
the coffee or the
sound of your voice.