(no subject)
I couldn't get home to post yesterday, so I'm doing it today. Happy belated (it must still be 3rd somewhere...?) birthday, Cate! To be perfectly honest, I don't know you as personally as I'd like to, and that's probably failing on my part. In any case, I love your writing, your sense of humor, and your S and R. Hope you have a great year.
I bear fic. R/S. Happy.
Remember That Stevens Poem?
- see "The Snow Man" by W. Stevens.
Lessening: cold a long time (to behold the junipers shagged with ice)
Objectively, you can never call Remus beautiful: & that’s what’s gorgeous about him, the way he forces you into the subjective, forever binding you to the distortions of the light & air & earth around him, drawing you, inevitably, to the center of their change. & so it is, this afternoon, this morning, this day, this long, darkening night, along the rivering world Sirius would find the divine constancy. It’s not even him, he thinks, it’s the entirety of their circumstances, the haphazard way they’ve been thrown against each other, the fanning tail of fate & the surety with which their limbs find solace in the negatives. Sirius doesn’t want to throw around words as hard as divine, but the flaring in him does not fit within the confines of lesser words-the unbreaths, the burn, the sweet blankness.
Afterwards, they rush the dressing, mouths still thick & skin sticky. The air is slightly more weightless & the floor gives under them. In the living room there is coffee & tea, & Sirius salutes Lily as she says, tilting her head, light catching her [& transforming her]: you two switched shirts.
At that, Sirius dips his head to drink his coffee & leans his elbows on his knees, but Remus simply stretches back & grins.
& in the perceptions of things, we change them. we make them. we unmake them. we remake them.
Lessening: a mind of winter
a mind of nothing: delightful nothing, the negatives of art & humanity, the making of beautiful things & existing.
It’s Remus who first gave him the Stevens’ collection of poems, wrapped with newspaper & charms. Bookmarking the poem is a small paragraph of commentaries, written elegantly on expensive parchment, in speculative, uncertain terms, talking about a speculative, uncertain nothing.
Of course, on such Augustan evenings he imagines snow against the dusk: stretches & stretches of it, the blizzard long & hard, irretrievably beautiful, & painful only from one small vantage point. (a mind of winter.) On the pale pave of that same evening he will rise & not speak, not move, not break the silence. In that way this poem had always been his favorite poem. & perhaps in that same way, it does not hurt to burn. & in that way, he is as alive as the slow, as divine as nothingness, as beautiful as morning.
I bear fic. R/S. Happy.
Remember That Stevens Poem?
- see "The Snow Man" by W. Stevens.
Lessening: cold a long time (to behold the junipers shagged with ice)
Objectively, you can never call Remus beautiful: & that’s what’s gorgeous about him, the way he forces you into the subjective, forever binding you to the distortions of the light & air & earth around him, drawing you, inevitably, to the center of their change. & so it is, this afternoon, this morning, this day, this long, darkening night, along the rivering world Sirius would find the divine constancy. It’s not even him, he thinks, it’s the entirety of their circumstances, the haphazard way they’ve been thrown against each other, the fanning tail of fate & the surety with which their limbs find solace in the negatives. Sirius doesn’t want to throw around words as hard as divine, but the flaring in him does not fit within the confines of lesser words-the unbreaths, the burn, the sweet blankness.
Afterwards, they rush the dressing, mouths still thick & skin sticky. The air is slightly more weightless & the floor gives under them. In the living room there is coffee & tea, & Sirius salutes Lily as she says, tilting her head, light catching her [& transforming her]: you two switched shirts.
At that, Sirius dips his head to drink his coffee & leans his elbows on his knees, but Remus simply stretches back & grins.
& in the perceptions of things, we change them. we make them. we unmake them. we remake them.
Lessening: a mind of winter
a mind of nothing: delightful nothing, the negatives of art & humanity, the making of beautiful things & existing.
It’s Remus who first gave him the Stevens’ collection of poems, wrapped with newspaper & charms. Bookmarking the poem is a small paragraph of commentaries, written elegantly on expensive parchment, in speculative, uncertain terms, talking about a speculative, uncertain nothing.
Of course, on such Augustan evenings he imagines snow against the dusk: stretches & stretches of it, the blizzard long & hard, irretrievably beautiful, & painful only from one small vantage point. (a mind of winter.) On the pale pave of that same evening he will rise & not speak, not move, not break the silence. In that way this poem had always been his favorite poem. & perhaps in that same way, it does not hurt to burn. & in that way, he is as alive as the slow, as divine as nothingness, as beautiful as morning.