Tag: personal
***HiRE mE***
WHich 1 sHOUld b my NEw LINKEDIN pic?????
Tbh, one of the more embarrassing side effects of a life marked by intermittent physical and emotional abuse is that Luka by Suzanne Vega makes me teary.
playlist of innocence and experience pt. 1/my regurgitated adolescence
This was a life changing paragraph
Every time I go on a first date with a white cis straight man, Quentin Tarantino seems to come up and I inevitably accidentally spend half an hour getting really indignant and pissed off talking about how much I hate the violent masc revenge fantasy genre and how Inglorious Bastards and Django are even worse the the run of the mill male savior film because they use the suffering of marginalized, raped, enslaved, and murdered peoples to prop up their own narcissistic bullshit. Naturally, I don’t go on many second dates.
that are so very soft and full of love: “sometimes Junebird sings me lullabies “
self portrait of girl as google account history pt 2.: seasonal depression version
we drove through miles and miles of forest fire zone and awoke, enmeshed, dazed, to find ourselves on an island where the sun shone, just for us, each day.
I miss waking up back in the Pacific NW, where each morning I could stroke the soft gold of his hair. His deep, untroubled sleep was brilliant; an alien entity to me. How can he slip back into the comfort of that soft release—pulling me, fidgeting and anxious, back into his arms without ever truly stirring? My main gripe, I suppose, is my incapacity to register wonder in this world, what Nathan called my chronic weariness…But the word “wonder” is no hyperbole for the borrowed realization I found in his arms—that there are bodies in this world so innocent, so undamaged, that they are not yet startled by contact, by affection. There are bodies that still believe that they belong entirely to themselves. I think that’s why I liked walking with him, through the woods and the plains, better than anything. Each step he took was decisive, unburdened, as though he had never doubted the contract between himself and the world. All this to say that I miss him and the dog and the joy he took in simply being, though I railed against him at times, accused him of dwelling in fantasy, of indulging in the luxury of withdrawing from the oppression and pain that others had no choice but to acknowledge. Perhaps some of that sentiment came from a place of actualized politics, but most of it was born of envy and of the fear that accompanies my sense of exile from the bright world he inhabits still. I miss him. I want him to breathe his settled manner back into my mouth.
my insides have felt wretched and ugly for much of the last few years, but somehow I still have a Rachel who writes love poetry like this for me.
Little Bristling Soul 