Bartholin's gland
Words wing their glistening way against bloodshot eyes, prying at her innards, tearing at her skin. The light yellow, the indoor air heavy with bitter herbs and chicken flesh. A pear core stands independently erect, ghostly white, elegant and sculptural bitten down, innards revealed. The trendy ambient electronica of yesteryear clashing with common household dischord and comfort.
Calm
Peace
Security
Oh, and that swelling. Why is it on the other side now? What is it doing there? On both sides, no longer a little cyst, but spread out as through a vein or vessel. Or perhaps it is just fear and imagination. Perhaps.
When does writing, expression of any kind, for that matter, come from joy? So much art is dark, expressing the inner turmoil and terror of us. Where is the genuine joy, not the cliché’d forced joy, but the real joy. The reveling in skin on skin, the salty sting of seawater, the illicit joy of stolen moments on the path between other people’s houses. The terrifying joy of frenzied lovemaking, slow hairstroking, tendernesses forgotten in the bliss of many?
Calm
Peace
Security
Oh, and that swelling. Why is it on the other side now? What is it doing there? On both sides, no longer a little cyst, but spread out as through a vein or vessel. Or perhaps it is just fear and imagination. Perhaps.
When does writing, expression of any kind, for that matter, come from joy? So much art is dark, expressing the inner turmoil and terror of us. Where is the genuine joy, not the cliché’d forced joy, but the real joy. The reveling in skin on skin, the salty sting of seawater, the illicit joy of stolen moments on the path between other people’s houses. The terrifying joy of frenzied lovemaking, slow hairstroking, tendernesses forgotten in the bliss of many?
posted by Sadie Myles at 1:40 AM
1 Comments:
maybe, my dear sweet lovely girl S, it's just that the joy is birthed through the darkness, and while squeezing through the latter, we sometimes fall in love with its very delicious and painful, painfullucious, tight and redwet qualities, until we are not sure how, or whether we even want, to get... squirming and bloody, wriggling in the cold, wedded to growth... into the former?
i miss you, m'dear. i can't wait to see you this Xmas down in p. takus carus. you're worth the everything.
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