|:: image source ::|
one . two
three . four
27 October 2014
"We all start out knowing magic.
We are born with whirlwinds, forest fires, & comets inside of us. But then we get the magic educated right out of our souls.
We get it churched out, spanked out, washed out, and combed out. We get told to be responsible. Told to grow up.
You know why we were told that? Because the people doing the telling were afraid of our wildness and youth,
& because the magic we knew made them ashamed & sad of what they'd allowed to wither in themselves.”
:: image:: via tumblr
:: text :: Robert McCammon
23 October 2014
20 October 2014
We live in a modern society. Husbands and wives don't grow on trees, like in the old days.
So where does one find love?
When you're sixteen it's easy,
like being unleashed with a credit card in a department store of kisses.
There's the first kiss. The sloppy kiss. The peck.
The sympathy kiss. The backseat smooch. The we shouldn't be doing this kiss. The but your lips
taste so good kiss. The bury me in an avalanche of tingles kiss.
The I wish you'd quit smoking kiss.
The I accept your apology, but you make me really mad
sometimes kiss. The I know your tongue like the back of my hand kiss.
As you get older, kisses become scarce. You'll be driving home and see a damaged kiss on the side of the road, with its purple thumb out. If you were younger, you'd pull over, slide open the mouth's
red door just to see how it fits.
Oh where does one find love?
If you rub two glances, you get a smile.
Rub two smiles, you get a warm feeling.
Rub two warm feelings and presto-you have a kiss.
Now what? Don't invite the kiss over and answer the door in your underwear. It'll get suspicious
and stare at your toes. Don't water the kiss with whiskey.
It'll turn bright pink and explode into a thousand luscious splinters,
but in the morning it'll be ashamed and sneak out of your body without saying good-bye,
and you'll remember that kiss forever by all the little cuts it left on the inside of your mouth.
You must nurture the kiss.
Turn out the lights. Notice how it illuminates the room.
Hold it to your chest and wonder if the sand inside hourglasses comes from a special beach. Place it on the tongue's pillow, then look up the first recorded kiss in an encyclopedia: beneath
a Babylonian olive tree in 1200 B.C.
But one kiss levitates above all the others.
The intersection of function and desire. The I do kiss.
The I'll love you through a brick wall kiss.
Even when I'm dead, I'll swim through the Earth,
like a mermaid of the soil, just to be next to your bones.
:: image :: photo by Nieves Alvarez
:: text :: the archipelago of kisses by Jeffrey McDaniel