The situation of the arts is two-faced. One face is the face of equal opportunity. Everybody gets a try: equal opportunity. To that face there should be no guardian at the door—it’s open admissions. The other face is the face that deals not with opportunity and hope but with the quality of the actual work […]
museum of me
(http://rebloggy.com/post/surrealism-anatomy-surreal-art-fernando-vicente/88480807114)
you caught me in our closet
again, plucking strands of hair
in the almost dark.
I said I was weaving curtains
to keep your mother out,
so you turned on the overhead
bulb and went back to bed.
at breakfast you said weren’t hungry
while I hovered around your knees,
sopping up the milk that bled like
canvas paint through the bowl I’d
made from the bits of me I’d been saving.
I baptized your spoon and examined
what I’d been leaving behind; five
of my molars formed the handle.
I tossed it in with the other cutlery
and when you left for work you kissed
me goodbye and my jaw fell off.
I think you were absentminded when
you put it in your briefcase with your
ballpoint pens and paperwork, and I
was left at home to cover all the mirrors.
I think…
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Falling in love
You never see your loved one’s flaws. You fall in love too quickly, in a rush of delight at finding such a person, a burst of wonder that, in all this wide and fragile world, there exists a mind just like your own. Before long, they have settled down inside of you, in the vulnerable parts of your chest. Any doubt, any flaw, is drowned out by the rhythmic thump of a voice that says you are not alone.
It’s like that with books.
There are so many books, so many writers I could tell you about, which would make me look clever, or deep, or wise. But let’s be honest with each other for a moment: those are not the books which live within you. The books you fall in love with are the books with flaws. They are the books you devoured late at night under the sheets…
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Love, Despite
Before I married my husband, I told him to make sure that he was marrying me for who I was that day, and not for any future changes he hoped to have wrought in me through the “transforming” power of marriage. Though we were both young, I had seen enough unhappy marriages to make me wary of the institution, and who wants to be institutionalized, really? I had no question that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him, but I wanted us to start off with as little illusion as possible. I wanted to know that he saw me, and not some airbrushed version of a girl to be placed on a pedestal. It is easy to fall in love if you believe all the fairy tales and movies. Beautiful women with flowing hair and flawless skin meet muscled men with pure hearts and chivalrous intentions and they ride off to his manor with servants aplenty…
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Weekly Rant: Living in the Age of Irony
A couple of years ago, the always-inflammatorySalonran a piece entitled “The 15 Most Hated Bands of the Last 30 Years.” Included on the list were such hate-favourites as Nickelback (hatred of them has become so common as to be ubiquitous), but also many of the bands whose work came to define the sounds of the ’90s. Think Goo Goo Dolls, Dave Matthews Band, and Hootie and the Blowfish. Surprised to hear that they are the most hated band? So was I. But then again, in many ways I really wasn’t. Though I was incredibly annoyed at rediscovering this list a little over a week ago, I saw it as just another sign that we are indeed still living in “The Age of Irony.”
At first, I couldn’t quite figure out why the list annoyed me so much. Was it simply because they had listed the Goo…
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Mistakes of love
He felt alone. I could feel it in his aura.
My fingers brushed against his arm and his eyes shut. He clenched his jaw, his shoulders stiffened. Slowly raising my head I watched as his eyelids parted. His eyes stared off into the distance ahead, the rain was too strong to look out. I wondered where his imagination had landed him this time. Left hand still clutching the steering wheel, he continued tapping to the beat. He felt my eyes questioning his body but he wouldn’t break that easy. No way, his ego was far too big for that.
A mumble escaped his parted lips. I turned my head in an instance, a puzzled expression drawn over my face – with my eyebrows raised I fixed my eyes on the side of his face – eye contact would only kick it off again.
The rain continued battling it’s presence with the windscreen wipers; determined not to lose – almost following its owners persona. I still loved him, but he made my insides turn.
In the corner of my eye I caught him wearing the same expression that had been masking my face almost all week. He needed to understand my silence. He needed empowerment. He craved my existence simply to heighten his purpose, too feed his masculinity. What a sick animal.
That’s when his curiosity broke him.
He traced his fingers against my cheek, he knew my weak spots. Waiting for my crossed arms to unfold allowing him full access he continued, brushing his index finger over my lips, he leaned closer, his breath grew heavier, panting he let out a loud sigh against my cheek. The stench of cheese and garlic mixed with fresh beer slapped against my frail skin.
He brought his face closer into my neck, his hoarse voice was inaudible to the thoughts crashing against the walls of my scull. I resented this man. It was then that his love became a distant memory. I was living on memory, on a past my imagination had created. But he wouldn’t let me leave.
I was stuck.
His calluses fingers grazed against my cotton summers dress. If only I could go home and wear a blouse over my exposed chest. He’d already convinced himself I was inviting him in with the cleavage exposure. God damn it he fucking makes me sick. His grubby hands reached the top of my thighs, the screams bubbled at my gut. I wanted his filthy hands off my skin.
The same filthy hands that had grabbed onto her sexes were about to explore mine…
I had to do something. It was the only thing I saw. I wanted him off of me. I didn’t want him gone; I just wanted to never set my eyes on him again. I didn’t love him. I don’t love him. I hate him and now he’s gone.
I miss him.
***
Hiding the blood dripping leaver was probably the most challenging thing I did that night.
Memories from his previous night spent with her probably clouded his few brain cells as he was oblivious to noticing how at unease I was.
One hand to his zipper was all it took to have his head fling back. Damn this bastard really thought I was blind to his recent late nights at the office, clothes covered in her flowery perfumes.
My right hand got to work while my left hand travelled between my legs, the spanned sat just under my thigh. Grunting he thought I was pleasing myself. HA! What a fool.
So predictable; a single flat moan escaped my mouth and his filthy fingers plunged inside my mouth, heaving he assumed my sexes were alight. His loud groaning drowned out the noise of the spanned clanging against the car door. His eyelids flung open.
In just one movement his head smashed against the steering wheel, thick hot blood oozed from the cut.
The spanner sat stuck between his head and as the wheel. I couldn’t force my hand around it to remove it, the nausea was making my head sway; it grew heavier with every second that passed.
I rolled the windows down just an inch, the fear of someone seeing us tensed my shoulders, that’s when I knew I had to leave him. Like he’d left me.
Minutes passed and I finally managed to move my numbing body.
Fuck I already missed him.
I glanced around the car park; it was just as empty as it had been 40 minutes ago. Bloody hell it’d not been 40 minutes!
***
Opening the car boot I quickly slipped my trembling body in the thick layers of his oversized coat. I fastened the zip and pulled the large fur hood over my head. His stench drowned me.
Arms hugging my body, I slowly hurried towards the exit.
I lost him for good.
fifi-unlocked 