by heytherewildflower

i want to live where there is no science. only precision.

“QUentin knew the house, twelve miles from Jefferson, in its grove of cedar and oak, seventy five years after it was finished . And, he was not only an architect as General Compson said, but an artist since only an artist could have borne those two years in order to build a house which he doubtless not only expected but firmly intended never to see again. Not, General COmpson said, the hardship to sense and the outrage to sensibility of the two years’ sojourn, but Sutpen: that only an artist could have borne Sutpen’s ruthlessness and hurry and still manage to curb the dream of grim and castlelike magnificence at which Sutpen obviously aimed; that the little grim harried foreigner had singlehanded given battle to and vanquished Sutpen’s fierce and overweening vanity or desire for magnificence or for vindication or whatever it was (even General Compson did not know yet) and so created out of Sutpen’s very defeat the victory which, in conquering, Sutpen himself would have failed to gain.”

how about giving birth with a conch shell belt notched tight around the waist

an air of tranquil and unwitting desolation, the red morning sky

and the dumb twilight with its ridiculous qualities

of dust, and azure and magic. forget about it.

 

sitting in the storm isnt that great. the raindrops pool in the divot

hacked beneath that big nose with big character

says your mother who means YOU UGLY THING,

your symmetry is all ruined. labored for a buttonnose,

not a big honker. i labored for a glistening Lake mane

and not a jew fro.

 

the indulgent performance of sunset  falling upon

the disinterested audience, except occasionally

its a good distraction.