August 2012
Play
“Develop a built-in bullshit detector.”
—Ernest Hemingway (via thatkindofwoman)
colporteur.: '10 Honest Thoughts On Being Loved By A Skinny Boy' - Rachel Wiley. →
colporteur.tumblr.com
(I had to transcribe this poem, because it became an immediate favorite the second that I heard it. I am over 70 pounds heavier than my boyfriend, and I have thought, felt and said all of these things before. But he is perfect, and we are perfect together.)
10 HONEST THOUGHTS ON BEING LOVED BY A SKINNY BOY
Rachel Wiley
1.
I say, ‘I am fat.’
He says ‘No, you are beautiful.’
I wonder why I cannot be both.
He kisses me
hard.
2.
My college theater professor once told me
that despite my talent,
I would never be cast as a romantic lead.
We do plays that involve singing animals
and children with the ability to fly,
but apparently no one
has enough willing suspension of disbelief
to go with anyone loving a fat girl.
I daydream regularly
about fucking my boyfriend vigorously on his front lawn.
3.
On the mornings I do not feel pretty,
while he is still asleep,
I sit on the floor and check the pockets of his skinny jeans for motive,
for a punchline,
for other girls’ phone numbers.
4.
When we hold hands in public,
I wonder if he notices the looks —
like he is handling a parade balloon on a crowded sidewalk;
if he notices that my hands are now made of rope.
5.
Dear Cosmo: Fuck you.
I will not take sex tips from you
on how to please a man you think I do not deserve.
6.
He tells me he loves me with the lights on.
7.
I can cup his hip bone in my hand,
feel his ribs without pressing very hard at all.
He does not believe me when I tell him he is beautiful.
Sometimes I fear the day he does will be the day he leaves.
8.
The cute hipster girl at the coffee shop
assumes we are just friends
and flirts over the counter.
I spend the next two weeks
mentally replacing myself with her
in all of our photographs.
When I admit this to him
we spend the evening taking new photos together.
He will not let me delete a single one of them.
9.
The phrase “Big girls need love too” can die in a fire.
Fucking me does not require an asterisk.
Loving me is not a fetish.
Finding me beautiful is not a novelty.
I am not a fucking novelty.
10.
I say, ‘I am fat.’
He says, ‘No. You are so much more’,
and kisses me
hard.
“What I meant was stars: lots of them.
What was in the bag: a hundred other bags,
each filled with a star. What came after the world:
silence, lots of it. Like being in a bag for a year,
a portable hole, losing the sensation of sound.
After only two nights stars appear
where there were none. So: I’m sorry. I’m here,
not the star of this poem, nor are you. Nor beauties
in bags draped down by the river in books about bodies
and necks stretching upwards to sky. What comes after beauty
is water, just water, nothing reflecting in it, not even the song
of water. Drink. Take this. It’s yours. There’s no one at work
in the world. No dogs rambling the park.
Nothing in darkness or pressure arising by depth.
What was in the works but ears, ears everywhere,
on the land like leaves, caught up in updrafts like silk,
like slick maps written on it and worn on a body.
You know it’s a beauty. Even seen from a mile,
at which point it’s only a dot, it stretches and grows.
Comes closer. She’s coming for you. She walks like a star.
Towards you. In her bag is a book. Each page
draped with stars. You’ll know her
when she arrives. You’ve seen her breathing before.” —“More Precisely,” Ander Monson (via vlorin)
What was in the bag: a hundred other bags,
each filled with a star. What came after the world:
silence, lots of it. Like being in a bag for a year,
a portable hole, losing the sensation of sound.
After only two nights stars appear
where there were none. So: I’m sorry. I’m here,
not the star of this poem, nor are you. Nor beauties
in bags draped down by the river in books about bodies
and necks stretching upwards to sky. What comes after beauty
is water, just water, nothing reflecting in it, not even the song
of water. Drink. Take this. It’s yours. There’s no one at work
in the world. No dogs rambling the park.
Nothing in darkness or pressure arising by depth.
What was in the works but ears, ears everywhere,
on the land like leaves, caught up in updrafts like silk,
like slick maps written on it and worn on a body.
You know it’s a beauty. Even seen from a mile,
at which point it’s only a dot, it stretches and grows.
Comes closer. She’s coming for you. She walks like a star.
Towards you. In her bag is a book. Each page
draped with stars. You’ll know her
when she arrives. You’ve seen her breathing before.” —“More Precisely,” Ander Monson (via vlorin)
“I don’t think that there are any limits to how excellent we could make life seem.”
—Jonathan Safran Foer, Everything Is Illuminated (via concocted)
Blackout
Amusement Parks On Fire
Blackout - Amusement Parks On Fire
Freely
Devendra Banhart
theworldisanapple-youareaseed:
Freely - Devendra Banhart
What Happens When You Want Someone You Can’t Have
The Time Spent With The One You Want Is Terrible (Even If It’s Amazing)
A highly sought after, far too rare opportunity to spend time with the one you want comes – so you can’t pass it up. Well technically you could, but you won’t. You hang out so infrequently, that you’re used to impromptu invites and making spontaneous trips to talk or hang with her/him. There’s an unfortunate set of circumstances that make it virtually impossible to have concrete, calendar-marked plans with this person, so you’ve got to take what you can get. When you’re starving for their time and attention, this is an opportunity for sustenance. The scraps and crumbs of their busy schedule will serve as nourishment. Very little, but that’s better than nothing… right?
The issue that arises from this scenario depends upon how enjoyable the brief time together was. If it went terribly wrong, you’ll desperately want another opportunity to fix that and make it as awesome as you imagined it being. However, if it was mind-blowingly delightful, things are no less complex. Now you’ll be craving more days like that one, wondering when the next occasion for face time will be. The degree of emotional strain felt from this catch-22 varies – but it certainly will make its presence felt.
Nothing good ever comes out of reading Thought Catalog articles.
