theweaveofsilence:

Why didn’t I notice?
It seemed that my mother had cried that night;
the night, I came across with the pain—
and the sticky depth of the dawn.

The night, 
I became the Bride of Acacias.

That night, the town,
was crammed with the shadow of colorful windows
and my match had arrived inside my wits.

I was seeing him in the mirror.
And he was as pure as the reflection of lights.
Then suddenly he called my name—
and I became—the Bride of Acacias.

It seemed like my mother had cried that night.
Why didn’t I notice?

[forough farrokhzad, the sad little fairy, 1967]

+

“then suddenly he called my name… how gentle it was when you lied.”

“when a body is in motion, it does not coincide with itself. it coincides with its own transition: its own variation… in motion, a body is in an immediate, unfolding relation to its own nonpresent potential to vary.” 

[brian massumi, parables for the virtual]

poetryeater:

“I dreamt that Earth was finished. And the only human being to contemplate the end was Franz Kafka. In heaven, the Titans were fighting to the death. From a wrought-iron seat in Central Park, Kafka was watching the world burn.”

—

from Roberto Bolaño, “A Stroll Through Literature”

because a world worth (its) ending is a world worth living in/for.

“the skin figures. it is what we see and know of others and ourselves. we show ourselves in and on our skins, and our skins figure out the things we are and mean: our health, youth, beauty, power, enjoyment, fatigue, embarrassment or suffering. the skin is always written: it is legendary. more than the means of what we happen voluntarily or involuntarily to disclose to sight, it has become the proof of our exposure to visibility itself. it is perhaps precisely because of this that the skin has been hard to see in itself, just as it is hard to see the mirror when we are so intent on what we see in it.”

[steven conner, “mortification,” thinking through the skin]

dissimules:

“I think perfection is ugly. Somewhere in the things humans make, I want to see scars, failure, disorder, distortion.”

—

but then at the same time i disagree with yohji—i like to meticulously plan my scars, choreograph my failure, direct my disorder, perfect my distortions…
perfection can be ridiculously sexy:
if it’s done right,
comes at me unprepared,
flawed flushed flesh fucks best with my head.

aspiel:

“How did that little Mormon boy from Oklahoma I used to be grow up to be a transsexual leatherdyke in San Francisco with a Berkeley Ph.D.? Keeping my bearings on such a long and strange trip seemed a ludicrous proposition. Home was so far gone behind me it was gone forever, and there was no place to rest. Battered by heavy emotions, a little dazed, I felt the inner walls that protect me dissolve to leave me vulnerable to all that could harm me. I cried, and abandoned myself to abject despair over what gender had done to me.”

—

Susan Stryker, “My words to Victor Frankenstein above the village of Chamonix: Performing transgender rage”

Stunning.

as anne carson put it, “secrets save me from dissolving.” sometimes though, the weight of your burden brings down the walls, the secrets, leaving you vulnerable. oh so vulnerable.
hence, heartbreak.