i'm telling you stories.
rave had the following tags on that last gifset but i felt like they deserved their own post (x):
#i’m starting to straighten out what i hate so much about the ”lol jay-z house husband stay home cook dinner” funny jokes#(besides E V E R Y T H I N G)#but like garden variety boring misogyny aside#what really grinds my gears is this poisonous bullshit nonsense idea that marriage/partnership is a zero-sum game#WHAT’S WITH THAT???#you know? like#if one partner is a baller then the other one must necessarily be a drudge#beyonce’s ambition/success diminishes jay-z’s ambition/success . BULL CACKY#THAT’S A FALLACY AND ALSO DAMAGING AS HELL#BALLERS LOVE BALLERS.#GENUINELY STRONG PEOPLE DON’T WANT PARTNERS THEY CAN SUBJUGATE.#(except maybe sometimes on their own terms.) (with a safeword.)#and these stupid little ”cutesy” jokes about jay-z doing laundry are like#these horrible little outgrowths of the exact toxic plant to which beyonce sets herself EXPLICITLY in opposition.#it’s literally telling girls to make themselves smaller. otherwise you will threaten the man.#your success and your shine is diminishing to the person you’re with. PINFEATHERS. HORSE TESTES.#WE CANNOT BE TOO BIG FOR LOVE. WE ARE MADE BIGGER BY LOVE.#WE MAKE EACH OTHER BIGGER. THAT’S LIKE THE WHOLE POINT#YA DUMB ASSHOLES#AND NEITHER OF THEM DO LAUNDRY. THEY HAVE LIKE 20 WHITE MAIDS FOR THAT.
naw not really, i don’t believe in soulmates
i think the difference you’re looking for comes with time
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
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?'
'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.'❞
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.❞
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 a woman, an animal, or a 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
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.
Chunky and noisy,
but with stars in their black feathers,
they spring from the telephone wire
they are acrobats
in the freezing wind.
And now, in the theater of air,
they swing over buildings,
dipping and rising;
they float like one stippled star
becomes for a moment fragmented,
then closes again;
and you watch
and you try
but you simply can’t imagine
how they do it
with no articulated instruction, no pause,
only the silent confirmation
that they are this notable thing,
this wheel of many parts, that can rise and spin
over and over again,
full of gorgeous life.
Ah, world, what lessons you prepare for us,
even in the leafless winter,
even in the ashy city.
I am thinking now
of grief, and of getting past it;
I feel my boots
trying to leave the ground,
I feel my heart
pumping hard, I want
to think again of dangerous and noble things.
I want to be light and frolicsome.
I want to be improbable beautiful and afraid of nothing,
as though I had wings.