Related Recs

🌌

Reading ray young bear

This morning I read the second section of Ray Young Bear’s Winter Of The Salamander, “When We Assume Life Will Go Well For Us”. Ray’s work is dreamlike yet feels viscerally real. It helps me integrate the mental with the physical in my life. Anyways, I wanted to share a poem I read about ten times over this morning that evoked an indescribable feeling in me. From His Dream the air hadn’t changed  since she last saw her mother. the land was cover with frozen  rain. she knew a couple of days  ahead that the spring would disappear. she kept reminding to her husband,  it’ll have to come back.  i don’t think it’s really over with,  but he always seemed disinterested.  a look of worry in his eyes.  even as it was snowing,  thunder rolled across the roof  of their home and they couldn’t  help glancing at each other  with puzzled faces. bodies  of disemboweled animals flashed  in their minds,  the children ran about in play  but when they ran into their father’s  eyes, they could see the light  of their rooms, the changing contrast  of shadows, clothes that had to be buried, faces of death, a knife burning in  the figure of seals on a tree. the second time they ran,  the wind made sounds as if  there were people with their mouths  up against the house, talking. as it grew colder, the snow made  more noise against the plastics  coverings over the windows. when the children looked outside  they could see the clouds piling up  on top of each other, each group  darker than the other.  across the room where their mother sat they could distinctly visualize  the changing color of her lips.  teeth biting into her skin. they followed as she circled  the room, spitting the chewed willow  all around the windows. their son has been gone most  of the day. it wasn’t unusual for him  to hunt alone. he always seemed to know  what to do. old enough to be gifted  naturally to keep away from flowing women, he had spoken about sliding down hills  on his knees, picking up the snow  to his ears and hearing the thoughts  of deer, bringing packed bodies  of muskrat and duck, the different  crusts of blood on his shoulder bag. from a distance, his father  could see his tracks heading  into the thickets. small owls guided  their way through brush by the touch  in their wings. he remembered a dream  he had that morning of giant fish  and coral snakes submerged in the icy waters  of a river he had never seen.  he and his son cornering a small horse covered with fish scales, bearing  the head of a frightened man.  its thin legs and cracked hooves.  somewhere in this land he knew  there was a place where these creatures  existed. he had also been told of a hole where the spirits spent their days,  watching the people before they crawled  out, traveling through their arcs  in the sky towards evening like birds. on the way back home, thinking his son  had circled the forest, he crawled  across a section of river which was still  covered with ice and fish entrails,  previous spots where he had taught  his son to use a blanket to block  out the daylight to lie there  with his barbed spear, waiting  for catfish to lumber out from the roots  of fallen trees under the ice.  although he felt a desire to crawl  straight across without looking  down into the river bottom through  the clear ice, something caught his eye,  as he peered into the bubbling water,  he saw the severed head of his son,  the hoof from his dream,  bouncing along the sandy bottom.

@archibald

Jan 19, 2025

⭐

the ocean

there is something figuratively beautiful about the things we know and don’t know, the sublime and mundane and when you visit the beach, do you ever think about if the animals who live in the embrace of the depths remember the beauty of the ocean? where the salt envelops every single one of us,  accepting us as kin letting her wind tousle our raw, visceral edges  and pepper them with her sea-foamed kisses  which tell me that it’s okay to pretend and okay to tell the ocean all of myself the ocean reaches out to me, hands cloaked in the sharp coolness of water and something else- something i don’t understand as I poke around in a tide pool, like a vendor at a bustling market, observing the wares that the ocean has to offer and i turn around and ask her, do the barnacles see themselves? do anemones understand their own beauty, fragile and ephemeral?  i don’t think they do.  but the ocean doesn’t have any words for me, instead shutting my mouth with a shhhh  as her sandy dress rustles down the shore, laced with white foam and gossamer trails of ripples and wordlessly, tells me to look  and i do.  until the sun hurriedly retreats from the wispy radiance of the moon, enrobed in puffy clouds and it's just the three of us. the moon tugs at the ocean’s hand, dancing to their own secret rhythm,  letting me see them in their love. personally, i think it’s beautiful \\ and i wish i had something like it and the ocean laughs. nothing jeering or ridiculing, simply an acknowledgement that i understand. everything around me falls,  like petals cast off from a chrysanthemum. and then, we were wordless  like the ocean had never spoken in the first place.  i want to descend into the depths of the ocean one day, to be hugged once more and never again. not because i am tired of being alive, but frankly within me exists too much zeal to live. uncontrollable surges of wow i am alive in flesh, blood through my veins, and thoughts in my head become more addictive than any form of fentanyl, cocaine, heroin  and better than any gateway into a better life  or a better existence, transcending normality and the moment it’s just me in my head, without the viscous energy of being alive suddenly drains me like a leaking bucket, decrepit and dry. i want to burn like a torch, setting my world alight into embers, into flames,  into an inferno.  Sunrise:: being alight || with a halo of only thoughts and dreams || and the divinity of something new

@neiternal

May 2, 2025

⭐

Found this poem by Althea Davis

“And God, please let the deer on the highway get some kind of heaven. Something with tall soft grass and sweet reunion. Let the moths in porch lights go some place with a thousand suns, that taste like sugar and get swallowed whole. May the mice in oil and glue have forever dry, warm fur and full bellies. If I am killed for simply living, let death be kinder than man.” ― Althea Davis

@scott_russell

Feb 8, 2024

Top Recs from @rocky

🫠

Being smitten with someone

fuck it going giggly googly eye mode

@rocky

Feb 18, 2024

🥵

lord make me chaste....... but not yet

quote from st. augustine. he ate that

@rocky

Feb 12, 2024

🔍

incredibly tiny writing

when i need to write secrets, things i'm ashamed about, sexy sentences, or anything i don't want any eyes on (not even mine) i write as small as i possibly can. this past weekend i had a lot of floating anxieties that i committed to paper this way and free writing in this format helped offload thoughts that were making me loopy. it looks kind of psychotic by the time i'm done a page but also kind of beautiful? (edited to fuck to preserve secrecy but still give you an idea of what it looks like. this is on a folded-up A4 sheet of paper zine)

@rocky

Mar 13, 2024