strict warning: Declaration of views_plugin_style_default::options() should be compatible with views_object::options() in /home2/leannaba/public_html/modules/-AddOns/views/plugins/views_plugin_style_default.inc on line 0.
“It was one of those days when it's a minute away from snowing. And there's this electricity in the air, you can almost hear it. And this bag was just... dancing with me. Like a little kid begging me to play with it. That's the day I realized there was this entire life behind things, and this incredibly benevolent force that wanted me to know there was no reason to be afraid, ever. It helps me remember... I need to remember. Sometimes there's so much beauty in the world I feel like I can't take it... and my heart is just going to cave in.”
— American Beauty
,
Posted by Leanna - Sunday, February 8, 2015 - 1:34am
' My darling, you can't see it, can you?
How like the moon you are. Both of you
so timid in yourselves; hiding pieces from
the world. Then, there are those rare
moments when you are both full and it becomes
hard to look away. Oh, you are beautiful. '
*
Posted by Leanna - Wednesday, February 4, 2015 - 2:30am
“She was tied to the moon by long threads of red tangled blood.
She moved like a woman tied to the moon …
it enveloped her and it opened her to an absolute night without dawn.”
— Anaïs Nin, Snowdrops of winter … crocuses of spring, from Aphrodisiac
. . .
Posted by Leanna - Saturday, January 31, 2015 - 11:00pm
' Say hello to all the apples on the ground, they were once in your eyes but you sneezed them out while sleeping.
Say hello to everything you've left behind,
it's even more a part of your life now that you can't touch it.
I'm taking her home with me, all dressed in white.
She's got everything I need, some pills in a little cup.
She's falling hard for me, I can see it in her eyes.
She acts just like a nurse with all the other guys. '
I think the night sky was made so beautiful so that we might stand beneath it and marvel completely all the while feeling utterly humbled as we remember exactly who we are.
:::
Posted by Leanna - Thursday, January 29, 2015 - 2:38am
A woman who writes feels too much,
those trances and portents!
As if cycles and children and islands
weren’t enough; as if mourners and gossips
and vegetables were never enough.
She thinks she can warn the stars.
A writer is essentially a spy.
Dear love, I am that girl.
-- Anne Sexton, The Black Art
,
Posted by Leanna - Wednesday, January 28, 2015 - 10:52pm
