Love does not begin and end the way we seem to think it does. Love is a battle, love is a war; love is a growing up.

-
James Baldwin
Man, I was thinking about unrequited love. I figure it’s best to just walk that shit off. Find someone else to be excited about. It’s like if you love ice cream but your ice cream man friend won’t give you any. Maybe he’s got a good reason. It cuts into profits. Who knows? But he likes you as a friend and wants to hang out anyway. It just drives you crazy to hang out with that dude, even if he’s being reasonable from his point of view. So don’t hang out with him. What, you ONLY like ice cream? It’s ice cream or nothing? Don’t be an asshole. Learn to love donuts.

- joey comeau

miss-zarves:

rave had the following tags on that last gifset but i felt like they deserved their own post (x):

xlai: gowns my love!! do you believe in soulmates? do you know if it's possible to tell the difference between love and True Love?

gowns:

naw not really, i don’t believe in soulmates

i think the difference you’re looking for comes with time

infatuation fades

true love comes in layers and layers of time and being present with someone, that’s why the wedding vow goes “for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health”

love is spending so much time with someone that you feel like one unit and then they say something that you disagree with and you argue about it and you realize that you’re not a unit, you’re two people who are so connected it makes you nauseous sometimes. still, two distinct people, who are THERE, THERE, maddeningly, invigoratingly, THERE — there for each other — there all the same

and it’s layers and layers of sediment, that you’re always digging through. and when you hit stone, you don’t stop; you start jackhammering until you reach earth again. and it will be soft, but there will always be layers of rock waiting, sometimes nearly impossible to break through, and you just keep trying to barrel thru each other

every body has hard spots, but you’ll know it’s love if you’ve hit the rocks, and documented it: the type, the texture, the color. and you are ok with these rocks, and you would prefer them to any other kind of rock

i don’t think people are made for each other, that’s a very individual way to think, and i don’t think things work like that. i do, however, believe that there is a good amount of predestiny or fate; some things are just bound to happen. if you and your person work well together, then it works. if you’re working too hard through it, maybe it’s not meant to be.

if it’s easy now, then go with it. later it will get hard, because it always gets hard later. the first rule of the universe: everything heads towards entropy. porridges are stirred. (they can’t be unstirred.) tea is steeped. (it can’t be unsteeped.) relationships get hard.

if it’s a good fight, you’ll feel it in your bones — “i want to keep this.” you would prefer slamming against this rock to the wide world above it

because they’re deep in you too, and the two of you, ideally, are mutually benefiting each other, and giving equal contributions, both people willing to fight for each other, giving each other full trust & respect

a lot of relationships fall apart, naturally. it’s just a lot of weight to keep holding. all those damn rocks. all the damn working for it. the fighting for it. (note: actual fights and/or mean arguments are not signs of healthy relationships.) the figurative constant fight to hold each other, i mean. if it works, it’s like a ballet. exhausting sometimes, but mostly exhilarating

it seems easy enough to me. i guess the thing that’s hard to figure out is the point where it turns from a good healthy slog to a bad one, where the exhaustion outweighs everything else.

i think real love is an ache. the best ache, but also the strongest and longest ache. a continual tear. any parent could tell you that. you just have to decide which person you trust the most with carrying/causing it

damn   important   love   
Visionary feminism is a wise and loving politics. It is rooted in the love of male and female being, refusing to privilege one over the other. The soul of feminist politics is the commitment to ending patriarchal domination of women and men, girls and boys. Love cannot exist in any relationship that is based on domination and coercion. Males cannot love themselves in patriarchal culture if their very self-definition relies on submission to patriarchal rules. When men embrace feminist thinking and practice, which emphasizes the value of mutual growth and self-actualization in all relationships, their emotional well-being will be enhanced. A genuine feminist politics always brings us from bondage to freedom, from lovelessness to loving.

- bell hooks 

(via thymoss)

[ash beckham - coming out of your closet (tedxboulder)]

hard is not relative.  hard is hard. …there is no harder, there is just hard.  …we all have hard.

what else can you ask someone to do but try?  if you’re gonna be real with someone, you gotta be ready for real in return.  

there are so many truths that i live by in this video. so many important truths - about life, and bravery, and hurt, and love; her queerness is completely incidental to the bombs she’s dropping, and i love it.

It is you who are the life of things. You stand there and draw them into you. You turn your gaze on the dull and the insipid to make them shine. And ask them to stay, and they will not, so you find their vanishing of equal interest. I love that in you. Also I fear it. I need quiet and nothingness. I tell myself I should fade and glimmer if long in your hot light.

- as byatt, possession

Much later, he came out of a half-sleep, imagined he heard the sea, which was just possible from there, and then was aware that she was weeping silently beside him. He put out an arm, and she pushed her face into his neck, a little awkwardly, not clinging, but pushing blindly to lose herself.

'What is it? my dear?'

'Ah, how can we bear it?'

'Bear what?'

'This. For so short a time. How can we sleep this time away?'

'We can be quiet together, and pretend- since it is only the beginning- that we have all the time in the world.'

'And every day we shall have less. And then none.'

'Would you rather, therefore, have had nothing at all?'

'No. This is where I have always been coming to. Since my time began. And when I go away from here, this will be the midpoint, to which everything ran, before, and from which everything will run. But now, my love we are here, we are now, and those other times are running elsewhere.'

'Poetic, but not comfortable doctrine.'

'You know, as I know, that good poetry is not comfortable, however. Let me hold you, this is our night, and only the first, and therefore the nearest infinite.'

He felt her face, hard and wet on his shoulder, and imagined the living skull, living bone, fed with threads and fine tubes of blue blood and inaccessible thoughts, running in her hidden cavities.

'You are safe with me.'

'I am not at all safe, with you. But I have no desire to be elsewhere.'


- as byatt, possession
I cannot let you burn me up, nor can I resist you. No mere human can stand in a fire and not be consumed.

- A. S. Byatt, from Possession  (via thatkindofwoman)

(via thatkindofwoman)

This is what love does: It makes you want to rewrite the world. It makes you want to choose the characters, build the scenery, guide the plot. The person you love sits across from you, and you want to do everything in your power to make it possible, endlessly possible. And when it’s just the two of you, alone in a room, you can pretend that this is how it is, this is how it will be.

- David Levithan, Every Day (via larmoyante)
q'd   quotes   love   david levithan   every day   
If I acknowledge my dependency, I do so because for me it is a means of signifying my demand: in the realm of love, futility is not a “weakness” or an “absurdity”: it is a strong sign: the more futile, the more it signifies and the more it asserts itself as strength.)

-

re-reading/flipping through barthes’ a lover’s discourse: fragments now that i actually have time to breathe academically again, and, like

this is definitely about one direction

The bad news is, people are crueler, meaner and more evil than you’ve ever imagined.


The good news is, people are kinder, gentler and more loving than you’ve ever dreamed.


- "The Moths Arrive in Black and White", I Wrote This For You

(via moriarteaparty)

To write is certainly not to impose a form (of expression) on the matter of lived experience. Literature rather moves in the direction of the ill-formed or the incomplete, as Gombrowicz said as well as practiced. Writing is a question of becoming, always incomplete, always in the midst of being formed, and goes beyond the matter of any livable or lived experience. It is a process, that is, a passage of Life that traverses both the livable and the lived. Writing is inseparable from becoming: in writing, one becomes-woman, becomes-animal or vegetable, becomes- molecule to the point of becoming-imperceptible. These becomings may be linked to each orher by a particular line, as in Le Clezio’s novels; or they may coexist at every level, following the doorways, thresholds, and zones that make up the entire universe, as in Lovecratt’s powerful oeuvre. Becoming does not move in the other direction, and one does not become Man, insofar as man presents himself as a dominant form of expression that claims to impose itself on all matter, whereas woman, animal, or molecule always has a component of flight that escapes its own formalization. The shame of being a man-is there any better reason to write? Even when it is a woman who is be- coming, she has to become-woman, and this becoming has nothing to do with a state she could claim as her own. To become is not to attain a form (identification, imitation, Mimesis) but to find the zone of proximity, indiscernibility, or indifferentiation where one can no longer be distinguished from woman, an animal, or molecule-neither imprecise nor general, but unforeseen and nonpreexistent, singularized out of a population rather than determined in a form. One can institute a zone of proximity with anything, on the condition that one creates the literary means for doing so.

- gilles deleuze, “literature and life”

In the beginning are our differences. The new love dares for the other, wants the other, makes dizzying, precipitous flights between knowledge and invention. The woman arriving over and over again does not stand still; she’s everywhere, she exchanges, she is the desire-that-gives. (Not enclosed in the paradox of the gift that takes nor under the illusion of unitary fusion. We’re past that.) She comes in, comes-in-between herself me and you, between the other me where one is always infinitely more than one and more than me, without the fear of ever reaching a limit; she thrills in our becoming. And we’ll keep on becoming! She cuts through defensive loves, motherages, and devourations: beyond selfish narcissism, in the moving, open, transitional space, she runs her risks. Beyond the struggle-to-the-death that’s been removed to the bed, beyond the love-battle that claims to represent exchange, she scorns at an Eros dynamic that would be fed by hatred. Hatred: a heritage, again, a remainder, a duping subservience to the phallus. To love, to watch-think-seek the other in the other, to despecularize, to unhoard. Does this seem difficult? It’s not impossible, and this is what nourishes life-a love that has no commerce with the apprehensive desire that provides against the lack and stultifies the strange; a love that rejoices in the exchange that multiplies. Wherever history still unfolds as the history of death, she does not tread. Opposition, hierarchizing exchange, the struggle for mastery which can end only in at least one death (one master-one slave, or two nonmasters # two dead)–all that comes from a period in time governed by phallocentric values. The fact that this period extends into the present doesn’t prevent woman from starting the history of life somewhere else. Elsewhere, she gives. She doesn’t “know” what she’s giving, she doesn’t measure it; she gives, though, neither a counterfeit impression nor something she hasn’t got. She gives more, with no assurance that she’ll get back even some unexpected profit from what she puts out. She gives that there may be life, thought, transformation. This is an “economy” that can no longer be put in economic terms. Wherever she loves, all the old concepts of management are left behind. At the end of a more or less conscious computation, she finds not her sum but her differences. I am for you what you want me to be at the moment you look at me in a way you’ve never seen me before: at every instant.When I write, it’s everything that we don’t know we can be that is written out of me, without exclusions, without stipulation, and everything we will be calls us to the unflagging, intoxicating, unappeasable search for love. In one another we will never be lacking.

- helene cixous, the laugh of the medusa

And I’d choose you; in a hundred lifetimes, in a hundred worlds, in any version of reality, I’d find you and I’d choose you.

- The Chaos of Stars 

(via tatesplace)

Colette

My mother used to say, “Sit down, dear,
and don’t cry. The worst thing for a woman
is her first man—the one who kills you.
After that, marriage becomes a long career.”
Poor Sido! She never had another career
and she knew first-hand how love ruins you.
The seducer doesn’t care about his woman,
even as he whispers endearments in her ear.

Never let anyone destroy your inner spirit.
Among all the forms of truly absurd courage
the recklessness of young girls is outstanding.
Otherwise there would be far fewer marriages
and even fewer affairs that overwhelm marriages.
Look at me: it’s amazing I’m still standing
after what I went through with ridiculous courage.
I was made to suffer, but no one broke my spirit.

Every woman wants her adventure to be a feast
of ripening cherries and peaches, Marseilles figs,
hot-house grapes, champagne shuddering in crystal.
Happiness, we believe, is on sumptuous display.
But unhappiness writes a different kind of play.
The gypsy gazes down into a clear blue crystal
and sees rotten cherries and withered figs.
Trust me: loneliness, too, can be a feast.

Ardor is delicious, but keep your own room.
One of my husbands said: is it impossible
for you to write a book that isn’t about love,
adultery, semi-incestuous relations, separation?
(Of course, this was before our own separation.)
He never understood the natural law of love,
the arc from the possible to the impossible…
I have extolled the tragedy of the bedroom.

We need exact descriptions of the first passion,
so pay attention to whatever happens to you.
Observe everything: love is greedy and forgetful.
By all means fling yourself wildly into life
(though sometimes you will be flung back by life)
but don’t let experience make you forgetful
and be surprised by everything that happens to you.
We are creative creatures fuelled by passion.

One final thought about the nature of love.
Freedom should be the first condition of love
and work is liberating (a novel about love
cannot be written while you are making love
).
Never underestimate the mysteries of love,
the eminent dignity of not talking about love.
Passionate attention is prayer, prayer is love.
Savor the world. Consume the feast with love.

edward hirsch

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