“We know we are very special. Yet we keep trying to find out in what way: not this way, not that way, then what way?”
— “Special” by Lydia Davis
young naturalist
• about me
• my face
• shenanigans
• follow me elsewhere
• sounds i like
• ask me anything
• send stuff oh k
• about me
• my face
• shenanigans
• follow me elsewhere
• sounds i like
• ask me anything
• send stuff oh k
99 things to do when you’re bored
get drunk alone. tell someone they have nice shoes. let yourself cry in public. wave to anyone who notices. throw away dried out pens. call someone. leave a voicemail. pack up everything you love. pack it well. unpack everything you love. think about how you usually don’t think about breathing. miss someone. don’t. ACCEPT LOSS ALWAYS. say someone’s name when you talk to them. try to remember the names of people you meet and will never see again. don’t be afraid to make eye contact. dance alone, daily. think of all the places around you that you haven’t been to in a while. go see them. if you can make someone eye’s twinkle, that’s special. if you can make your own eyes twinkle, that’s even better.
i have had the same wall decorations for literally like 6 yrs…but the cat is new !
i want so badly
for you to feed my fire again,
tend to it,
want to keep close enough
to keep an eye on it,
keep extra matches,
and keep me.
you watched me cracking,
popping, escaping, and knew
i was likely to go out without you,
without reason to burn—
but even a bonfire wasn’t enough to stay;
maybe it was too hot a day,
the last person had left, gone to sleep,
or it got out of hand.
you threw water on the fire all at once,
sending smoke,
making it all worse;
the fire cried heartbreak,
but i wasn’t angry,
i was lost without it:
self-conscious, vulnerable, grieved;
the darkness hissed misgivings,
and the ground was too wet
to start anything again.
i was my happiest fire with you;
but that’s okay i guess,
i’ll find my fireplace,
my home with a chimney,
with a place for everything:
a hearth for warm backs,
a black mesh curtain screen to guard embers,
a place to hold pokers,
and soot that’ll never be cleaned.
i’ll become predictable,
i’ll hate it, but i’ll be patient—
knowing i’ll be forgotten about one day,
i’ll build up,
the chimney will catch,
everyone will watch,
point fingers, hold loved ones,
and as i burn what is left,
i’ll never understand
how we could get along
like a house on fire.
Hernan Bas (American, b. 1978), The party crasher, 2014. Acrylic on linen, 72 x 60 in.
the most endlessly supportive and goofy person. look at that smile i see every day !
we were aching tummies,
grief-stricken with games
of who will get bored first
and who will mean it.
she was a secret that should’ve spilled
three empty glasses of water
by her bedside and dropped hands
to familiar faces in streets
we walked in, looking in windows
of thrown together weddings,
but loved all the same.
i was the makeup left on her pillows,
a constant sweat
from touching her,
and reminders in elevators
that i slept well,
that i had a spot to come back to,
there were still hills to fall on,
and that maybe we could be in love
with games meant for us
if the neverending is playable
and no one comes in first.