Tuesday, 25 June 2013

A serious love letter

I had to put this on my blog, I was casually browsing letters, well I actually typed in "james dean letters" on a search engine as he writes superb letters and randomly came across this. I think it is simply beautiful.

"In 1932, months after first meeting in Paris and despite both being married, Cuban diarist Anaïs Nin and hugely influential novelist Henry Miller began an incredibly intense love affair that would last for many years and, along the way, generate countless passionate love letters. Below, in my humble opinion, is one of the most powerful examples, written by Miller in August of 1932 shortly after a visit to Nin's home in Louveciennes."

August 14, 1932

Anais:

Don't expect me to be sane anymore. Don't let's be sensible. It was a marriage at Louveciennes—you can't dispute it. I came away with pieces of you sticking to me; I am walking about, swimming, in an ocean of blood, your Andalusian blood, distilled and poisonous. Everything I do and say and think relates back to the marriage. I saw you as the mistress of your home, a Moor with a heavy face, a negress with a white body, eyes all over your skin, woman, woman, woman. I can't see how I can go on living away from you—these intermissions are death. How did it seem to you when Hugo came back? Was I still there? I can't picture you moving about with him as you did with me. Legs closed. Frailty. Sweet, treacherous acquiescence. Bird docility. You became a woman with me. I was almost terrified by it. You are not just thirty years old—you are a thousand years old.

Here I am back and still smouldering with passion, like wine smoking. Not a passion any longer for flesh, but a complete hunger for you, a devouring hunger. I read the paper about suicides and murders and I understand it all thoroughly. I feel murderous, suicidal. I feel somehow that it is a disgrace to do nothing, to just bide one's time, to take it philosophically, to be sensible. Where has gone the time when men fought, killed, died for a glove, a glance, etc? (A victrola is playing that terrible aria from Madama Butterfly—"Some day he'll come!")

I still hear you singing in the kitchen—a sort of inharmonic, monotonous Cuban wail. I know you're happy in the kitchen and the meal you're cooking is the best meal we ever ate together. I know you would scald yourself and not complain. I feel the greatest peace and joy sitting in the dining room listening to you rustling about, your dress like the goddess Indra studded with a thousand eyes.

Anais, I only thought I loved you before; it was nothing like this certainty that's in me now. Was all this so wonderful only because it was brief and stolen? Were we acting for each other, to each other? Was I less I, or more I, and you less or more you? Is it madness to believe that this could go on? When and where would the drab moments begin? I study you so much to discover the possible flaws, the weak points, the danger zones. I don't find them—not any. That means I am in love, blind, blind. To be blind forever! (Now they're singing "Heaven and Ocean" from La Gioconda.)

I picture you playing the records over and over—Hugo's records. "Parlez moi d amour." The double life, double taste, double joy and misery. How you must be furrowed and ploughed by it. I know all that, but I can't do anything to prevent it. I wish indeed it were me who had to endure it. I know now your eyes are wide open. Certain things you will never believe anymore, certain gestures you will never repeat, certain sorrows, misgivings, you will never again experience. A kind of white criminal fervor in your tenderness and cruelty. Neither remorse nor vengeance, neither sorrow nor guilt. A living it out, with nothing to save you from the abysm but a high hope, a faith, a joy that you tasted, that you can repeat when you will.

All morning I was at my notes, ferreting through my life records, wondering where to begin, how to make a start, seeing not just another book before me but a life of books. But I don't begin. The walls are completely bare—I had taken everything down before going to meet you. It is as though I had made ready to leave for good. The spots on the walls stand out—where our heads rested. While it thunders and lightnings I lie on the bed and go through wild dreams. We're in Seville and then in Fez and then in Capri and then in Havana. We're journeying constantly, but there is always a machine and books, and your body is always close to me and the look in your eyes never changes. People are saying we will be miserable, we will regret, but we are happy, we are laughing always, we are singing. We are talking Spanish and French and Arabic and Turkish. We are admitted everywhere and they strew our path with flowers.

I say this is a wild dream—but it is this dream I want to realize. Life and literature combined, love the dynamo, you with your chameleon's soul giving me a thousand loves, being anchored always in no matter what storm, home wherever we are. In the mornings, continuing where we left off. Resurrection after resurrection. You asserting yourself, getting the rich varied life you desire; and the more you assert yourself the more you want me, need me. Your voice getting hoarser, deeper, your eyes blacker, your blood thicker, your body fuller. A voluptuous servility and tyrannical necessity. More cruel now than before—consciously, wilfully cruel. The insatiable delight of experience.

HVM

          source -  http://www.lettersofnote.com/2013/02/dont-expect-me-to-be-sane-anymore.html

Monday, 24 June 2013

dead heart


They say dont ever go back

Youre on a tightrope

7 footsteps in

The whole wire could snap

You'd never know if you didnt go back

Youve been there before

Are you so sure?

Have you ever put yourself in the footsteps of a tightrope?

Buckling under pressure from feet all around

You know the answer

Its there, lying dead on the ground

Sunday, 23 June 2013

the telephone episode


In the dead of a cool night

I pick up the telephone

I dial your number

I know it off by heart, although the end numbers give me a hard time, coincidently like the end of our liaison

The voice I’m so familiar with lolls around in my head

It’s been 5 months, 26 days, 8 hours, 31 minutes, 6, 5 seconds,

It’s still as clear, as disfigured as that scar on my lower back

2 rings have gone by

Rhythmically erratic, my heart is thrashing like a fist on a goblet drum

8 rings pass

I retreat

I was yet a memory to him

The hurt of separation still lingers with me.  

Thursday, 20 June 2013

she only misses it with you


The girl misses the intimacy, she tightens the grip of her index and middle finger’s that are squeezing her cigarette butt. The girl flicks the un-finished cigarette to the curb; the cracks in the pavement smoke the last of it. The girl goes back inside the dark dingy warehouse where there is a party in full swing. Dodging past writhing, clammy bodies on the dance floor she heads for the bar. The girl grabs a handful of peanuts from the miniature steel bucket. The girl loosens her grip a second later, spilling peanuts all over the counter; the girl has a disconcerting thought of that sweaty man’s hands all over them. God knows what he’s been touching.

“hey you…yeah you, Liz Taylors love child”

“ha-ha, you’ve got to be kidding me, flattery does not wash with me”

Although the girl was playing the whole blasé game, inside her whole body was quivering. The girls’ palms were beaded with sweat. The girls’ throat was brut and empty. The girl twitches as the guy whispers seductively in her ear,

“I saw you outside, you smoke like a pro, you know like them snobs in the old 1940’s films”

The guy gives a cocked smile and a muted chuckle.

The girl ruffles her brows and says

“Am I supposed to take that as a compliment? Sounds like a pretty dick thing to say”

“Take it however you want baby girl, I’m outta here, love ya

The guy links arms with a thin blonde thing that walks past and struts out of the warehouse, lowering his hand onto her perfectly rounded buttocks as they get further away.

 

The girl feels a fool; she feels her checks burning up. The girl knows she misses intimacy but she knows she only misses it with you.

 

Current read - Summer and the City by Candace Bushnell


The second book in the series of the Carrie diaries
......
 


I thoroughly enjoy books by Candace Bushnell she is one author that really gets into the character and immerses herself into the world she has created. I read ‘The Carrie diaries’ when it first came out and I remember I couldn’t put the book down.

I’m currently reading chapter 13 of summer and the city and so far I have enjoyed it. It is pretty slow at the moment but it is starting to pick up pace. I love the fact we get an insight of Samantha Jones and Miranda Hobbes when they are young. Carrie Bradshaw is starting out as a writer and has a loooong way to go but the fact that we know she gets there makes you dream as hard as she does that she reaches her goal.

Reading this book makes me want to become a successful writer like Carrie will become. As well as being a girly book and having all the sex, ups and downs in love and things you can relate to as a young adult, you also become inspired.

If Miss Bradshaw isn’t writing, she is either at the hottest party (thanks to Samantha), with the hottest guy, or hooking up with famous people (a playwright being one of them! Every girls dream?). The character Carrie I find inspiring as she is independent, ambitious and always herself. She is the strong independent woman we all want to be. She is in the scary, all- happening city that is NY!! Be prepared to be envious if you read this book. Her life seems like such a HOOT!
a book that you can 100% get lost in.
 
                   WARNING - this book might leave you in a daze.

Saturday, 15 June 2013

soul love, kindred spirits


Longing for our non- physical characters to collide, our spirits are indestructible; we are kindred spirits – one in the same. Deprived of emotion, lacking in hate, brimming with love, respect and understanding. Looking for familiarity, soul love.  

William Blake poetry

An extract from “ a poision tree” – William blake
 
“I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I  was angry with my for:
I told it not, my wrath did grow,”

 

“the lilly” – William blake
 

“ the modest rose puts forth a thorn:
The humble sheep, a threatening horn.
While the lilly white, shall in love delight,
Nor a thorn, nor a threat stain her beauty bright.”

Sunday, 9 June 2013

roll-up boy


Your gloriously thick dark eyebrows, your chapped dry lips in most seasons except spring, your crooked eye that winks a second before the other, the way you tap the ash off your cigarette so effortlessly, the way you dance to Human League. It’s enough to keep me coming back.

So I do. Each time I see you, you are a little more perfected the way my mind wants you. Cuban cigars, Pall Mall cigarettes, roll ups. I got you down to roll-ups. Cigars made me too chesty, cigarettes made you smoke more than I wanted you too, roll-ups were cool and the least harmful. Social smoking only.

“don’t, don’t you want me? you know I don’t believe you when you say that you don’t need me”

“ I was working as a waitress in a cocktail bar”

I defined you with a song. I created you with a song. With a word and a feeling. I created you therefore you do not exist my sir.