Fetish

June 9, 2018

I am your fetish
I am your lullaby
Oh it’s my fault I agree
It’s all my fault I agree
I couldn’t stand my own ground
I couldn’t stay safe and sound

To take back the past
To take back my past
To rewind irrevocably
Is a thing that can’t be done
Is a thing that should
Never be done

I am your faith
Worshipping on your knees
You pray every night
To a girl that doesn’t exist
To a girl that will never exist

But I’m not that bright I guess
I’m still a faithless heretic
Still you blaze your suns dreams
Scorching the ground
Of withered trees

I guess you’ll never know
I guess you’ll never know
I guess you’ll never know
I guess you’ll never know

Anna Lo

Bad is strong

June 9, 2018

face and candle

The Bad thrives on the dark and the cold; it is a winter force. So be careful when the sun is weak, and the air bites you. Stay off the moor, where the Bad is strong. If the Bad catches you there, run to the Standing Stones. Even in the winter the Stones hum with a thousand ancient blessings. If you are closer to Foxlowe, run so you are inside the Scattering Salt.

Eleanor Wasserberg
Foxlowe

never be lonely again

June 9, 2018

So many uses

From that time on, the world was hers for the reading. She would never be lonely again, never miss the lack of intimate friends. Books became her friends and there was one for every mood. There was poetry for quiet companionship. There was adventure when she tired of quiet hours. There would be love stories when she came into adolescence and when she wanted to feel a closeness to someone she could read a biography. On that day when she first knew she could read, she made a vow to read one book a day as long as she lived.

Betty Smith
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn

pleasure

June 9, 2018

The search for pleasure is circular, repetitive, a temporal, The variety seeking of the spectator, the thrill hunter, the sexually promiscuous, always ends in the same place. It has an end. It comes to the end and has to start over. It is not a journey and return, but a closed cycle, a locked room, a cell.

Ursula Le Guin
The Dispossessed

The wretched caterpillars curled up or crept aside, the colours paled, the eye spots dimmed. They seemed to shrivel as from an inward searing. We watched with intent sympathy,… Yet we were also aware of the attackers, the whirl and flurry of wings, the colours beyond anything I have ever perceived on any planet of any sun, the antennae stiff and pointing like weapons of offence, the legs glittering and jointed as strange armour might have been.

Naomi Mitchison
Memoirs of a spacewoman