neither.

Posted on April 19, 2022 Posted in ReblogsTagged art, artwork, Authenticity, Author, Authorship, autobiography, Blogger, blogging, book, Book Release, Books, Contemporary, Diaries, Diary, English, Female, Female Body, Feminine, feminism, Feminist, Helene Cixous, Indie, Indie Author, Indie Writers, Life, Life Writing, lifewriting, literature, Love, minimal, minimalism, narratives, novel, pain, personal, personal blogging, poem, poems, poetry, Prose, Quote, Quotes, Relationship, Relationships, simplicity, tiny narratives, Womanhood, women's narratives, wordpress, words, writers, Writing, Writing Life, writinglifeLeave a comment

… the overwhelming majority disliked [“childless” and “childfree”], with one being seen as stigmatising and the other gleeful and nasty in its implication that parents somehow need “liberating”.

… that’s one reason why – when absolutely necessarily – “doesn’t have children” is the kindest, most neutral descriptor we can hope for. Though we can also hope to be moving away from one’s parenting status needing to be defined at all, especially for women, who still face this question far more frequently than men. Language matters, and as ever it often says more about us and our assumptions than we realise.

The Californian Widow

Posted on August 15, 2020August 15, 2020 Posted in AuthorshipTagged art, book, Books, douglas coupland, English, Life, life after god, literature, Love, novel, Prose, Quote, QuotesLeave a comment

There was the story of a central California widow who had fought to have her recently dead husband exhumed, pleading her case that before he had died he had swallowed her diamond ring in some sort of spite and that she wanted this jewel returned. But in the end she confessed that she had not slept for many many weeks and that she had been spending her nights lying on his grave, trying to speak to him, and that all she really wanted was just to be able to see his face one more time.

Life After God, Douglas Coupland

And There Will I Be

Posted on August 14, 2020August 14, 2020 Posted in Authorship, ProseTagged art, Blogger, blogging, book, Books, Diaries, Diary, emotions, English, feminism, Indie, Life, literature, Love, narratives, novel, pain, personal, poem, poems, poetry, Prose, Relationship, Relationships, wordpress, WritingLeave a comment

for-ever

I dream you still. And there I will be.

You don’t know my name. This is the past. And us is just a butterfly effect that didn’t happen. We are apart and at peace, just as before your eyes met mine, before our hands brushed and our words hushed. Before our secrets born into judging eyes. This is before everything.

And I am telling you this so you will search for me no more.

“I Want These Dreams Inside of Me”, When I My Own Daughter

In My Dreams, I am You

Posted on August 8, 2020 Posted in Authorship, ProseTagged art, artwork, blogging, book, Books, Diary, English, feminism, Girl Talk, Indie, Indie Book, indie books, Life, Life Writing, literature, Love, novel, personal, Quote, Relationship, Relationships, Womanhood, wordpress, words, Writing LifeLeave a comment

When I look into your eyes, I realise I came from a long journey across time, before yours nor mine. I knew this from recurring dreams. They’re so vivid that when I wake up, my arms my feet my body’s broken, sore and tired. These dreams are more than just a realm in my subconscious, they’re real.

In my dreams, I have your eyes, your smile, and everything’s new under the sun. In my dreams I am lost looking for something, anything feels like a mother. In my dreams, I too am abandoned, unwanted. In my dreams, I am you.

When I Look Into Your Eyes, When I My Own Daughter

I Can’t Grow A New Heart

Posted on August 7, 2020 Posted in Authorship, Diary, poetryTagged art, birthdays, book, Book Release, Books, Contemporary, Diaries, Diary, English, happy birthday, Indie Book, Life, Life Writing, literature, live, Love, love poem, love poems, poem, poem book, poetry, Poetry Collection, Writing, Writing LifeLeave a comment

kurt cobain baby

these stories, they come to me in dreams the first time I fell asleep since they told me you’ve fallen into flatline

I dream you

sometimes in colours, green and oranges, purples and blues, and not bleak nor dark, we are not in the shadows

in these dreams, our children they’re born. they’re not sucked to death, they’re not stillborn nor bled away

they live and we give

names to their innocent loving faces

the eldest has my eyes, her brother has your smile

in these dreams we’re not bitter

we’re not numb from pain

in these dreams you are standing tall

little daughter dances on your devoted steadfast feet

her brother clung to your arms, his head rests on your secure and sturdy shoulder.

he’s falling into another dream.

in these dreams, I dance with you under the chuppah

and you recite a long vow, a song we used to hum

before we went to sleep

about lovers

lost

and again,

found.

On birthdays that are wiser,

On Letters to Lovers Lost.

Morning Song

Posted on December 27, 2019December 27, 2019 Posted in AuthorshipTagged Ariel, art, artwork, book, Book by Women, Books, Contemporary, Diary, English, feminism, Feminist, Life, literature, Morning Song, poetry, Poetry Collection, sylvia plath, Womanhood, WritingLeave a comment

Morning Song

skin to skin I could feel us

-the liquid beneath our feet,

trampling into endless vacuum,

bleak and emptied I barely

recognise your bald cry, a far sea

distant and I am no more

your mother–

you have arrived into

a morning song

“It’s Him”, IV, Letters to Sylvia

maia diaries

Tag: book

neither.

The Californian Widow

And There Will I Be

In My Dreams, I am You

I Can’t Grow A New Heart

Morning Song