Libraryidealist - Dried Flowers And Art

the impossible return

"Well, let us see. What do I like?

I like my own children and all nice, fat, clean babies anywhere. I like all kinds of books if they're well written whether they are religious or philosophical or sentimental or cynical or humorous or exaggerated or indecent. I like writing books myself. I like cats and horses and some dogs. I like curling breakers, woods and mountains and stars and trees and flowers. I like nicely furnished houses. I like good Victrola records and the music of the violin. I like pretty china and glass and old heirloom things. I like a cosy bed and a tight hot water bottle. I like to be kissed by the right kind of a man. I like jewels and pretty clothes. I like doing fancy work and I like cooking and I like eating the nice things other people cook. I like motoring and driving and walking. I like a systematic life with occasional dashings over the traces. I like open fires and moonlit nights. I like nice chatty letters. I like compliments. I like to see a person I dislike snubbed. I like my own looks when my hair is dressed a certain way. I like a snack at bed time. I like going out to dinner. I like helping other people and I like to be very independent of help myself. I like sunsets and pictures and sea bathing. I like keeping a journal. I like reading old letters. I like housecleaning-I do! I like entertaining the race of Joseph. I like day-dreaming. I like going to concerts, good movies and plays. I like-or used to like before I wedded a minister-dancing and playing whist. I like reading the Bible-most of it. (I like the folk-lore of Genesis and the drama of the Exodus and the gorgeous furnishings of the tabernacle and the doings of the kings and the good maledictions of the Psalms and the warm imagery of the Song of Solomon and the cynicism of Ecclesiastes and the worldly wisdom of the Proverbs and the idyll of Ruth and the blazing fire of the prophets and the wonders of Jesus' teaching and the poetry of Revelations.) I like listening to good sermons. I like gardening. I like good spruce gum. I like my husband. I like people to like me. I like a good joke. I like rainy days. I like old homesteads. I like people who agree with me. I like chocolate caramels and Brazil nuts. I like-or liked in pre-prohibition days-Miss Oxtoby's dandelion wine. I like perfumes. I like a little gossip with carefully selected people. I like shopping at Eaton's.

There now, Ruskin, tell me what I am..."

-LM Montgomery, in her journal

lullaby at 102º by Traci Brimhall

"there is no platonic explanation for this--"

I fell asleep in my friends' arms. It was eleven at night, we were tired, curled up in a small pile on my tiny bed. I had my head buried in my roommate's side, and one of my closest friend's hand on my shoulder, steadying me. It was quiet and nothingness and peace and their heartbeats in my ears, my hands in their hair.

"there is no platonic explanation for this--"

We pack four people to that little bed, you know. Laps used as footrests, collarbones as pillows, little lights like moonlight in rustic yellow bathed on their faces. The TV plays an anime. The words are repeated by my dear friend on my shoulder, curled close. My legs are asleep; my roommate may be, too.

"there is no platonic explanation for this--"

The cat curls on top of our criss cross mess of legs and arms and heads on chests to absorb the warmth of us all. She purrs in contented peace. When my roommate and I are left alone in the quiet, she cries, and watches the door for our friends' return.

"there is no platonic explanation for this--"

I will never kiss them but the top of their heads. I will never touch but the warmth of their arms. I will never take more than what's freely given, and in return I put my glasses on the bedside table fashioned from a guitar amp, and when I lean into their sides, I pick up my vulnerability and place it in their capable, tender hands.

"there is no platonic explanation for this--"

I sing for them. I cry for them. I work and I run and I withstand the worst of the world for them, because some days I get to cradle their forehead on my shoulder and some days I get to see their shining eyes.

"there is no platonic explanation for this--"

Maybe to you. But look beyond explanation. I love them. With my heart in my unsteady hands, with my nose pressed to the side of their head, with the buzzing in my feet and the warmth all around Iike the sunset pushing into the window.

"there is no platonic explanation for this--"

Is it enough to say I love them? With no strings attached? With reckless abandon and utter devotion and freedom and kindness and fear?

"there is no platonic explanation for this--"

I cannot explain it any clearer. I love my friends. There is no more to say.

euripides (tr. anne carson) / sade andria zabala / anne carson

unknown, from pinterest // Maurice (1987), dir. James Ivory // "Silent Noon" by Dante Gabriel Rossetti via poetryfoundation.org // Picnic at Hanging Rock (1975), dir. James Weir // Renoir (2012), dir. Gilles Bourdos

A bit of a palate cleanser for everyone.

Menci Clement Crnčić (Croatian, 1865–1930), "A View of Novi Vinodolski"

Woon Young, on Tumblr

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bread so tasty. bread so nice. toast it once. toast it twice.