August 2012
Play
2:17
“Do you remember when we met in Gomorrah? When you were still beardless, and I would oil my hair in the lamp light before seeing you, when we were young, and blushed with youth like bruised fruit. Did we care then what our neighbors did in the dark? When our first daughter was born on the River Jordan, when our second cracked her pink head from my body like a promise, did we worry what our friends might be doing with their tongues? What new crevices they found to lick love into or strange flesh to push pleasure from, when we called them Sodomites then, all we meant by it was neighbor. When the angels told us to run from the city, I went with you, but even the angels knew that women always look back. Let me describe for you, Lot, what your city looked like burning since you never turned around to see it. Sulfur ran its sticky fingers over the skin of our countrymen. It smelled like burning hair and rancid eggs. I watched as our friends pulled chunks of brimstone from their faces. Is any form of loving this indecent? Cover your eyes tight, husband, until you see stars, convince yourself you are looking at Heaven. Because any man weak enough to hide his eyes while his neighbors are punished for the way they love deserves a vengeful god. I would say these things to you now, Lot, but an ocean has dried itself on my tongue. So instead I will stand here, while my body blows itself grain by grain back over the Land of Canaan. I will stand here and I will watch you run.”
—Life, Narrated: What Lot’s Wife Would Have Said (If She Wasn’t A Pillar of Salt) / Karen Finneyfrock
Exitmusic, "Passage"
Exitmusic
devincastro: exitmusic ~ passage
July 2012
“You should tell them the truth. Tell them that if they hold on too tightly, love might cut them. Tell them to hold on tightly anyway. Tell them everything is worth it and that the richness of life is only ever enhanced by its inevitable, brief flashes of sadness and loss.”
—~ I wrote this for you
“My mother leaned close to her ear, whispering words I couldn’t hear. But I knew what they were, what they had to be: the same ones I’d heard after all those bad dreams, all those skateboard and roller-skating accidents, all the times the little fiendettes chased me home on pink bicycles. I watched my mother do what she did best, and realized there would never be a way to cut myself from her entirely. No matter how strong or weak I was, she was a part of me, as crucial as my own heart. I would never be strong enough, in all my life, to do without her.”
—~ Sarah Dessen, Someone Like You
