And Yes I Said Yes I Will Yes.

I half wish to find a comfortable cave and live there for the whole of my existence but as that is an unlikely occurrence- I suppose I should join the rest of the human race and begin a blog. That doesn't mean I look down on any of you less. I am simply proving I can do it better. The Name is Olivia. I live the whole world wide. I like conspiracies, beautiful language, and things that give me leverage. Memento Mori: I'm ready for what's next.

(All writing published here is owned by me unless cited otherwise.)


In Omnia Paratus   I'm Bland Looking. Like Rice.
There are days we live
as if death were nowhere
in the background; from joy
to joy to joy, from wing to wing,
from blossom to blossom to
impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom.
From Blossoms; Li-Young Lee
Stephen Alcorn (more portraits of -predominantly white male- authors&writers at alcorngallery.com

Stephen Alcorn (more portraits of -predominantly white male- authors&writers at alcorngallery.com

The first day of spring was once the time for taking the young virgins into the fields, there in dalliance to set an example in fertility for Nature to follow. Now we just set the clock an hour ahead and change the oil in the crankcase. EB white
Gabriel García Márquez with snow in his hair

Gabriel García Márquez with snow in his hair

The San Francisco botanical gardens, basically the coolest place for two reasons:
1. Because they’re free every single morning from like 7 to 9 
2. Because they hold gods

The San Francisco botanical gardens, basically the coolest place for two reasons:
1. Because they’re free every single morning from like 7 to 9 
2. Because they hold gods

My life is a hesitation before birth. Kafka (January 24, 1922)

I’m back & this is what’s been up

Often, you call me up in the morning as soon as you’re awake and you say hey how are you did you sleep well when can I pick you up wear those shorts with the buttons please for me?
And I laugh and feel light about you and I say hey give me forty minutes I need a shower
But you say no sweetheart just take a shower with me
So i see you seven minutes later, long enough for mascara and clean underwear and I’m brushing my hair with my fingers in your car and you’re waiting for me to finish so you can hold my hand while you speed around the most dangerous turn, one hand on the wheel if I’m lucky.

And there are some days these things happen and I am in love
But there are others I am an angry claustrophobic drunk and I feel sick to look at you.
Those days when I get into your car and kiss you, it is out of habit only. Those days I hate myself and you and the stuck I am feeling
The neurosis between the slant-eyed impulse to escape and the ache of injury to you.
I settle for emotional distance only and close my eyes early
face turned on instinct to the window.
I don’t know what you’re feeling, I tune you out and my volcano insides harden in that hostility
But I wake up curled around your body like a baby afraid of being dropped.
Because It’s everyday I feel alone
in another layer of the atmosphere
if both of your hands,
all of your fingers
are not on me,
touching me.

The voice of forest water in the night, a woman’s laughter in the dark, the clean, hard rattle of raked gravel, the cricketing stitch of midday in hot meadows, the delicate web of children’s voices in bright air—these things will never change. Thomas Wolfe
Hold out your hands to feel the luxury of sunbeams. Press the soft blossoms against your cheek, and finger their graces of form, their delicate mutability of shape, their pliancy and freshness. Expose your face to the aerial floods that sweep the heavens, ‘inhale great draughts of space,’ wonder, wonder at the wind’s unwearied activity. Pile note on note the infinite music that flows increasingly to your soul from the tactual sonorities of a thousand branches and tumbling waters. How can the world be shriveled when this most profound, emotional sense, touch, is faithful to its service? I am sure that if a fairy bade me choose between the sense of sight and that of touch, I would not part with the warm, endearing contact of human hands… Helen Keller, The Open Door

affection

I have an incredible memory for your body
and my body
For your body, my memory is miraculous
I can’t remember my left from right but
I know the curl of your fingers on my neck
My nerves are supposed to stop at my follicles but
The places your eyelashes brushed the split ends of my hair
Still tickle

last time I speak to you

You used to whisper Lolita,
my sweet Lolita child
while your fingers crept inside me,
gluttonously conscious of their potential for brutality.

I’ve been hungry for everybody who has desired me
But he calls me Aphrodite
Who knew the ancient sex and sway
No ingenue’s inexperience
Or baby’s ignorance

He calls me Aphrodite
I have never been weak
Or vulnerable to your roughman hands,
To your hardness

I’ve never been afraid the way you were.

Margaret Atwood, the Canadian novelist, once asked a group of women at a university why they felt threatened by men. The women said they were afraid of being beaten, raped, or killed by men. She then asked a group of men why they felt threatened by women. They said they were afraid women would laugh at them. Molly Ivins

Only do not forget, if I wake up crying
it’s only because in my dream I’m a lost child

hunting through the leaves of the night for your hands….

Pablo Neruda, 100 Love Sonnets

"News Report: Lorena Woman cuts off husband’s penis, later throws it from car window."

"it lay in my palm soft and trembled
as a new bird and i thought about
authority and how it always insisted
on itself, how it was master
of the man, how it measured him, never
was ignored or denied, and how it promised
there would be sweetness if it was obeyed
just like the saints do, like the angels
and i opened the window and held out my
uncupped hand; i swear to god
i thought it could fly”
- Lorena, by Lucille Clifton

Born with the moon in Cancer
Choose her a name she will answer to
Call her green and the winters cannot fade her
Call her green for the children who have meade her
Little green, be a gypsy dancer.

He went to California
Hearing that everything’s warmer there
So you write him and letter and say, “Her eyes are blue.”
He sends you a poem and she’s lost to you

Little green, he’s a non-conformer.
Just a little green
Like the color when the spring is born
There’ll be crocuses to bring to school tomorrow

Just a little green
Like the nights when the Northern lights perform
There’ll be icicles and birthday clothes
And sometimes there’ll be sorrow.

Joni Mitchell, Little Green