SUN Confessions: Spit[e]

“Our first confessions took place outside as children. We ran, giddy with laughter, and running down sidewalks lined with cherry blossoms. One child chased another, and in the running, they didn’t use words to confess their joy, but laughter spoke it all the same. Confession need not be labeled as negative, nor limited to dark rooms without windows or fresh air. Everything we do and feel is part of nature, not religion, and only one is the true healer.”
― llv

Ribbonized

“An artist should never be prisoner of himself, prisoner of a style, prisoner of success, etc. Did not the Goncourts write that the artists of the great age of Japanese art changed names many times during their careers? I like that; they wanted to safeguard their freedom.”
~ Henri Matisse

Dusk

“Soon it got dusk, a grapy dusk, a purple dusk over tangerine groves and long melon fields; the sun the color of pressed grapes, slashed with burgundy red, the fields the color of love and Spanish mysteries.”
― Jack Kerouac

Garden Wanderers

“His scent attracted me not from physical distance, but from eternities I’d mourned without him. No matter what the world said was appropriate, I would taste him, and remember who we were, and how to one another, we were groves of love.”
~ Laura Lynn Vala

The Description

“In the Winter of my life I fell in love with Autumn and you. The leaves will change and fall but your love I feel is here to stay, at least for just another day.”
― Maria Koszler

The Hound

“Stop looking at my mouth.”
His eyes darkened, as she saw his pupils dilate. He mouthed back, just as silently. “What if I don’t want to stop looking at your mouth?”
― Thea Harrison

Entering By Tiptoe

“Be the one who nurtures and builds. Be the one who has an understanding and a forgiving heart one who looks for the best in people. Leave people better than you found them.”
― Marvin J. Ashton

Tracing Paper Wings

“I have come to accept the feeling of not knowing where I am going. And I have trained myself to love it. Because it is only when we are suspended in mid-air with no landing in sight, that we force our wings to unravel and alas begin our flight. And as we fly, we still may not know where we are going to. But the miracle is in the unfolding of the wings. You may not know where you’re going, but you know that so long as you spread your wings, the winds will carry you.”
― C. JoyBell C.

A Home Built With Echoes

“In the silence of the ticking of the clock’s minute hand, I found you. In the echoes of the reverberations of time, I found you. In the tender silence of the long summer night, I found you. In the fragrance of the rose petals, I found you. In the orange of the sunset, I found you. In the blue of the morning sky, I found you. In the echoes of the mountains, I found you. In the green of the valleys, I found you. In the chaos of this world, I found you. In the turbulence of the oceans, I found you. In the shrill cries of the grasshopper at night, I found you. In the gossamer sublimity of the silken cobweb, I found you.”
― Avijeet Das

The Fainting Kiss of Flight

“A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more
than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green
stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,
Bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners, that we may see
and remark, and say Whose?

Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the
vegetation.

Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I
receive them the same.

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.

Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them,
It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon out
of their mothers’ laps,
And here you are the mothers’ laps.

This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.

O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues,
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for
nothing.

What do you think has become of the young and old men?
And what do you think has become of the women and children?

They are alive and well somewhere,
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the
end to arrest it,
And ceas’d the moment life appear’d.

All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.”

― Walt Whitman

Crawling In Crystal Blue

“The more you try to impress, the more you become depressed, and the more they get tired of your coercion. It doesn’t make them love you, instead, they’ll see you as a little child, trying to draw a senseless picture on a piece of paper, begging people to look at it and admire it by force. You can persuade someone to look at your face, but you can’t persuade them to see the beauty therein.”
― Michael Bassey Johnson

xx PIERRE xx | our red vibrations [12 Sept 1968 – 11pm]

“The redwoods, once seen, leave a mark or create a vision that stays with you always. No one has ever successfully painted or photographed a redwood tree. The feeling they produce is not transferable. From them comes silence and awe. It’s not only their unbelievable stature, nor the color which seems to shift and vary under your eyes, no, they are not like any trees we know, they are ambassadors from another time.”

― John Steinbeck

Scoop. Lick. Drink

“I don’t know why people are afraid of lust. Then I can imagine that they are very afraid of me, for I have a great lust for everything. A lust for life, a lust for how the summer-heated street feels beneath my feet, a lust for the touch of another’s skin on my skin…a lust for everything. I even lust after cake. Yes, I am very lusty and very scary.”
― C. JoyBell C.

Soul Swinging

“His lips parted under hers, damp and soft and warm, and she forgot all of that. Her entire life focused in on the sensations, the gentle pressure that grew more intense the longer the kiss went on.
Chaste kisses, then dirtier ones, and man, those tasted good. They tasted better the wider her mouth opened, and especially after his tongue touched hers.
She could have done a whole semester of kissing with Shane. Intense personal study. With lab classes.
Time really wasn’t happening for her, but eventually Claire realized that there was a soft glow coming from the windows, and she was numb and sore from sitting on the floor. She winced as a muscle in her back protested, and Shane reached out, pulled her up, and settled himself on the couch.
He stretched out, and extended a hand to her. She stared, tingling and confused. “There’s no room.’”
“Plenty of room,’” he said.
She felt breathless and kind of wild, stretching out on the tiny area of sofa cushion available next to him, and then smothered a yelp as Shane picked her up and draped her over his chest and, oh my God, over all the rest of him, too.
“Better?’” he asked, and raised his eyebrows. It was a real question, and he was looking for a real answer. Claire felt a blush building a fire in her cheeks, but she didn’t look away from his gaze.
“Perfect,’” she said.”
― Rachel Caine

L O N E L Y

“Often we read that minimalism is the wave of the future, yet too often a man finds his past minimized by the simplicities of his needs.
To talk of the future as if ones past actions are exempt from the grandiosity of contributing to another’s failure, is like birthing a son and waiting until he is a man to call him good while forgetting you called him a bastard throughout his childhood”
~ V

S C A R S

“The mothers scar is the child’s wound that fades along her skin but does not heal the child’s heart until becoming scarred in manhood his pain bleeds into the womb of love where he returns to the origin of his healing”
~ V a l I d a r i o u