plight.

i pay homage to my land. the land of the awakened sea. it is a vicious sea, masquerading around what i thought was the intrinsic eye, but instead, the open wound of the swollen womb. her eyes are made of steel and her hands are covered in scars. the color of her skin, fair, but the open pores seep natures bloody dispair. she's not so transparent anymore. but my impending love is still there. holding on to every last hair, she sheds. and i recklessly grasp on to more. ripping out strand by strand in utter desperation for just a moment of her lost stare. she cries golden tears from under her steel lash, but remains still, as i grab those too, a figment of the past. and as she keeps her rigid head turned from the sight of my plight, ceasing all inhabition, she punishably says goodbye.
and that is when my fallen hands became limbs, for they could never betray their kin as she did.


i miss loving her.

shopping second hand is an art form all on its own.

http://secondskinstyle.blogspot.com/

i am fashionably inspired.

shes got amazing clothes, a keen eye, and a great sense of style.. and it's every bit my taste (vintage, vintage, vintage), gotta love it!!



i've got to start posting some of my finds, maybe i'll start wearing them more often! aand we should start having vintage tea parties or vintage wine tastings or vintage whatever so we can all get dolled up and prance around reno (or gardnerville or carson or... paris?) in our AMAZING outfits!! haha.. i'd do it ;)

really though, i love her blog, check it out. and better yet, shes actually selling these amazing finds at her Etsy shop!! GO before I snag em' alllllll!! ;)

grateful dead and a midwest boy, a day for the veterans.

What is it about winter months, long drives, and Bon Iver? Can you smell the evergreen? I still can.

A bee flew into the window. Its yellow and black skin lay still on the shield amidst the wind. It stays in plain sight. The first thing I think: Christ. The second: mother.

My name is Dominique. I am a child of god. Not a king of greatness. I don’t claim holiness, but I aspire for truth.

I saw arils at the store packaged in red. I thought of the mother and her many children, her many a creation. I thought of her intentions and whether or not I was apart of them.

My papa asked about my sister. And tears came to my eyes. I remembered the last thing she said to me. “Here, take it. I sprayed my perfume on it so you’ll remember me.” and I loved her, more than any heart could say “I love you.” And it was at that moment that my voice vanished, my stomach crooned and my crippled heart sank. Then she was gone; and everything became very still. My chest had become the empty void I was trying so hard to constrain. I never would have thought.

He. I remember his hair, his black curly hair. I remember his glasses, his smile, his voice.. his low sultry voice. I remember the way he thoughtfully moved his hair across his eyes, nose, then ears. I remember his uncertainty, his timid reactions and insecure replies. And I remember the look in his eyes; they spoke in ways I never thought were possible, then. They told me things I only understood with him. And then we were holding hands. And then we were sharing lips. And then we were touching skin. And then we were making breakfast for one another, buying secrets for each other, sliding spare keys onto chains for the other. He and I became nothing other than we. And we was magnificent for a while; a short while… until we turned back into I. and it all started slipping away. “We’re in this together,” I said, “we’re a team.” His constant opposing forces broke down my defenses, and that’s when the concept of ‘care’ was obliterated and completely washed away. I watched it as it drifted further and further out with the ebb and flow of shame. And I let it. With outstretched arms, my bloody fire became a quiet charcoaled burn and there was no more fuel to ignite such failure. It died.

And now, the ghost lives on. We still hold hands, share lips, touch skin, make stories, share keys, and dream together. But it’s not the same. The ghost of what it once was watches us as we scream, following us everywhere we go, reminding us of what we once had; keeping us holding on to something that lies six feet under land.

from where i came..

the land that pierced through my heart with the golden spear.

it flooded my being with the grace of the whitest of Light,

willfully raceing through the crown of my head.

ever expanded,

ever surrendured.

the land of many a tear shed, for this is where her yearning womb bled.

where the mountains wed earth and sky, she too watched her body die.

where the pain of submission and ecstacy of union collide,

she too watched as her psyche concieved alive.

that land that brought breath to my being

and a child to her eyes,

remains still.

as a vital moment in time.

old entries.

we all come from the same place. but our experiences are vastly different. it is interesting, the paths we choose, the people we meet, the lives we harbor... and it's all a bit glamorous at times. all trying so hard to be uniquely individualized or ardently noticed. it starts to get all too draining at times. and actively depressing. i don't like feeling like i'm constantly participating in what feels like a competition for selfhood. grand prize: a tumorous ego.


my heart calls upon those that bear the light and ignite the fire. it seeks the strength to understand what this means. and to activate the effort that it entails.
i am but a lone soul. a witness of the light and a threat to the blackened sea. it is my unbreakable endurance, my continual bleed that will forever fight for the highest of these truths. i plead.


i am fighting for peace. my troubled mind has me blind in despair: where is my contentment. where is my humble heart.