Tag: break-ups

Gam Zu Letovah (this too is for the best).

via mshades: From Portuguese – Saudade According to Wikipedia:

“…a feeling of nostalgic longing for something or someone that one was fond of and which is lost. It often carries a fatalist tone and a repressed knowledge that the object of longing might really never return.”

Bones and silk, flesh, diamonds, and suede – the sound of our relationship sifted through breathing, through waiting, through stumbling to a slow, crumbling end. Finally our slow unraveling, thread by thread, has dissolved us. It is no longer us together, us against the world. Our ship has capsized, not by a sudden disaster, but by the slow leaking of quiet depression, silent and heavy and too much to bear.

(I realized during my time away that I am done, that I can no longer hold myself static, that I need change. Even something as small as a declaration of stepping away, to feel that I am no longer against the wall, no longer holding my breath forever.)

He, of course, has been hit harder than I have, as I’ve been adjusting towards this since December, slipping away, unable to survive as an equal in a relationship without communication, as my increasing demands that he simply talk to me were set aside, excused, and our stone connections patiently eroded into sand. He began confessing only recently, began speaking in spurts and dribbles late at night, trying to explain, but it was, as many things, too little too late. Poor little words, stalling, halting, too worn out to dance. Yet, already, between the worst moments, we seem to be relaxing, finding space. He’s begun writing, I no longer feel pressured. I have hope for us now, when before I was beginning to have none.

keep the engine running

1guyporphyre frontyard

photos, unsurprisingly, by lung liu

“This life turned out nothing like I’d planned.” “Why not?” “When I was younger, living in L.A., I only wanted to grow up to be a famous pro-skateboarder. Pretty good at it too, not one of the insane guys, but up there.” “So what happened?” “My father moved us back to San Francisco and I became a musician.”

Saying goodbye, listening to the taste of every word that’s falling from my mouth like a flower petal, pearls spilling on the floor, why doesn’t he hear them? I hope the waiter doesn’t slip. A fortune of curiosity rilling across the floor. Formica table, silver edged, I’ve written about this before. It seems to be a place I say farewell to lovers. Late night, wishing we had picked the music, juke box saviors, noise, funk, tanned in the red light. My taste buds are crying out for the flavour of his sentence structure, how I find myself pronouncing his the word friends. A wild-eyed longing for something new, for all the stories he has to give the world, suffering from never enough. We should have, his future, another time, my past, we could have, but we won’t. Rain check. I want to lick his eyes, tri-coloured, red in the middle like a demon, green edged, the colour of jealousy, getting to fly away and jump away from here, cramped maybe, but I can’t care about that. Amazing. Summertime. Warmth. I’ll see him then, same old city, secrets open, wide, blazing. Press passes. Another stage, another show. Performances on and off, back behind fences, over by a beach, tucked around the lake. Maybe I’ll catch him a rabbit, eight track ears, folding back the soft fur, the sunburned faces of the people in the front row. For once, I don’t mind that I crossed the river. At least he held my hand.

“When I was sixteen, I had a decision land in my lap which would have changed everything. He was very rich, very famous. I see the face of the girl who said yes on magazines.” “I think you made the right choice.” “I think so too, or at least, I like to think so. Sometimes it’s hard to tell, but right now, all of it brought me to being here with you, and I’m okay with that. That feels alright by me.”

this album is too sexy

In memory of language, I will spit you, craven, from my mouth. Every day that was a letter with you, I will burn. In memory of words, of meaning, of the double-handed dealings of my tongue between your lips, I will tear you from me, reject your chrome sensationalism, my infatuation, my glorified attachment to your acquisitive frame. I will deny and repeal all rights your hands had, all liberties of motion, all the rapacious, itching greed I had mistakenly, lasciviously, authorized and stamped with the sanctioned approval of my gentlest kiss.

I will not allow you the animistic gift of speech. It is mine.

In respect for adoration, I will not name you. Your face will be blank, as slate on concrete, as lacking in feature as you were in grace. In respect for devotion, I will not need you, not crave or desire your golden smile, your irrevocable beauty, your unfortunate habit of junk crashing my mind. I flatly refuse to focus on your absence or notice the anger on my hands, my thwarted fingers, or my dizzying feeling of rejection. Your singular admiration will sink into time like twinkling stars into a cold winter sea, your voice will be like an aftertaste, and the flame of your being will be as to ashes dusted out of a failed marriage bed.

Medical-tophat, the creator of The Doctor Pepper Show, has a flickr account.

The latest in WTFJapan: “I think I have that song for DDR” with dubious thanks to Ed, who wants to know why Japanese women “sound so uncomfortable?”

Stevie Wonder setting fire to Sesame Street with an injection of pure funk into the Sesame St. Song and Superstitious.