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emma (lecerise) wrote this wonderful list.
freshly laundered bedsheets, the sea, lavender, vanilla bourbon, A.’s skin, hydrangeas, butter croissants, cigarettes, soil, baby lotion, Chloe perfume, burning wax, old books, chocolate cake.
jazz records, the ocean, the sound of butter being scraped onto toast, church bells, clocks ticking, burning logs, howling wind, bird calls, men sighing.
iii. things to touch
lips, rose petals, cashmere sweaters, bruises, spines, sifted flour, rabbit ears, corduroy, feathers, hands, clavicles, tissue paper, A.’s hair, rays of sunlight.
merlot, red lips, violet moonlight, eggshell blue, dusk, the pink of satin ribbons, black, summer-dress-pale-yellow, pastels, mustard, rust, royal green, the inside of an oyster shell.
Hopscotch, The English Patient, Swann’s Way, Lolita, Nine Stories, Anna Karenina, The Savage Detectives, East of Eden, Orlando, The Great Gatsby, Jane Eyre, Everything is Illuminated, Infinite Jest, A Spy in The House of Love, Under Milk Wood, Ulysses, Walden, Letters to a Young Poet, Just Kids, Hamlet, Everything is Illuminated, Le Petit Prince, All the King’s Men, Les Miserables, Helena or the Sea in Summer.
Amelie, Splendor in the Grass, Moonrise Kingdom, An Education, The Sound of Music, Atonement, Picnic at Hanging Rock, Daisies, The Wicker Man, Une Femme est une Femme, Fantasia, The Artist, The Spirit of the Beehive, Harold & Maude, Heavenly Creatures, Rosemary’s Baby, Nowhere Boy, The Wizard of Oz, La Boum, Gainsbourg, A Trip to the Moon, Bright Star, The Red Shoes, Heathers, Edward Scissorhands, Valerie & Her Week of Wonders, Midnight in Paris, Jules et Jim, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Chloe in the Afternoon, Belle de Jour, Labyrinth, Blue Velvet, The Dreamers, Annie Hall, Marie Antoinette, Rear Window.
Neck kisses, blindfolded kisses, hip kisses, fingertip kisses, knee kisses, lazy kisses, fierce kisses, long-awaited kisses, thigh kisses, secret kisses, eyelid kisses, french kisses.
ix. kind of touches
gentle touches, swoon-worthy touches, caring touches, thoughtful touches, hand-brushes with strangers, shoulder-to-shoulder touches on the train, goodbye hug touches, gasping touches, lip to hand touches, leg-brushing touches, goodnight touches.
“Argentina”, “cardamom”, “and”, “adieu”, “willow”, “licorice”, “meteor”.
Elvis Presley, Captain Von Trapp, Jeremy Irons, Kate Bush, Morrissey, Shirley Temple, whispered voices, Sean Connery, Nat King Cole, Bjork, A.’s lilting Russian, my father’s voice when he’s trying not to laugh, Sibylle Baier.
lecerise (emma cherry) wrote:
Anonymous asked: I feel so lonely and listless. What’s your best cure for heartache, dear?
I haven’t found the cure yet, but here are the steps I’ve taken so far:
i. Immersion in poetry and art. Go to museums; look at paintings that make the hollow space in your chest feel alive. Read things about love. Read things about birds, about mountains, about snow, about the rattle of a subway, about the rattle of a heart, about kissing, about embracing, about fighting. Read things about geometry and the clouds and about going to the museum and about the relationship between a mother and a son. Read anything that makes your breath stall behind your tongue. Read things that make you cry.
ii. Smile at strangers. Share glances with beautiful men or women. Leave scraps of paper in coffee shops and bookstores. Leave messages on napkins; leave messages wherever you go. Distract yourself by making up stories about the tall man with the scruffy chin who looked at you three times as you crossed the street or about the girl who picked up the note you left on the velvet cushion of your chair.
iii. Pick flowers, name flowers, kiss flowers, smell flowers, lay with flowers.
iv. Watch “The Sound of Music”, “Amelie”, “Splendour in the Grass”, “Harold & Maude”, “Daisies”, and “La Boum”.
v. Write long lists of your favorite things, of things you dislike, of names you love, of tremendous words, of quiet words, of beautiful people, of beautiful characters, of beautiful things.
vi. Write letters to your heart. Tell it frustrates you. Tell it to stop.
lecerise (emma cherry) wrote:
A list of things on my mind this autumn: the color brown, the color ox-blood, Proust, words, bouquets, velvet, skirts, knee socks, Anna Karenina, poetry, hot coffee, Twin Peaks, a navy beret, corduroy, oil pastels, orange sweaters, solitude, hard-backed books, Edith Piaf, candles, letters, riding the bus, pumpkin bread, fur collars, OMD, photographs, redemption, John Hughes, puzzles, red wine, red lipstick.
lecerise (emma cherry) wrote this:
There is no logic in the way A. speaks to me, and the sky is volatile, indifferent. Once we stopped by the side of the road to kick at some weeds that had begun frosting over. In doing so, I felt alive. A., without warning or knowledgable reason, pressed me down on the hoarfrost and I felt my bare back turning cold and corpse-like. My pleasure made me reel as if I were in pain. His eyes bloomed like a thousand brightly colored peonies at sunset. I made a mental list on the way home of things I’ve requested in the post: new lipstick, a jack russel terrier, and for A. to send me letters of the places he wants to have me.
The time we were at the carnival. A group of soldiers parted the crowd around midnight, marching with purpose and a discernable and utmost dignity. The women laughed helplessly, like a small gathering of hens. I would scoff and A. would nudge me. Shh. He kissed my ear which was curled quietly, a comma, a conch shell. Only in my most vulnerable moments could I picture life without him. We made love behind the elephant tent and his agression was clear as butane, and undeniable. The way the North Star was hidden behind a spire, or the way the sun is imprisoned behind a mask. A. hides and hides and hides his love for me, and I must press it out of him, until he and I become equally tired at the edges.
lecerise (emma cherry) wrote this poem:
I would compare you to the Rembrandt
hanging, if you both had flowers blooming
in your flesh:
Alive in the penthouse of a very old hotel
It’s empty & your mind is still on breakfast
A blue grid, like the ocean, stands across the street
& in the light you can see couples dancing -
Binoculars, the way clouds hang low & bright
and a conversation of warm bodies in the strike between eleven
and noon: there’s a bouncing mist of light and you can see
the beauty. Of mornings.
The first time two people make love
Like two bees in your line of vision
And a man draws the curtains closed & opens the curtains
again, like a child drawing a tornado.
There’s a sharp bolt of light, as if coming through a window
that lands like a fly on her back, and she turns again
sleepwalking, in tandem, & the way they move is beautiful
and you take it together, with your milk.
You see no structure & I see a pattern in the dance
of his white flesh, or in poetry, or maybe
it’s the way my hands are shaking
and how the lenses don’t quite focus, and how
our tool hits the glass.
lecerise (emma cherry) wrote:
four in the afernoon and
the light beating ceaselessly
on your back like an old rag
or a worn whip and the rabbit
in the entryway nibbles in his cage
somewhere the doorbell rings
the clock ticks in the foyer
you are moving up and down on
a tired springy mattress and
a butterfly has pierced your arm
hypodermically, and I see you
on a television show
the very same night.
you are cold and alone and
your body cracks and whispers,
and there, within you, around you -
something spins and shakes
in the creases of the evening
world. and when I love, I love
lecerise (emma cherry) wrote this:
Paul and Ruth did not write about how fat they had become or how many small cakes they had eaten but they wrote about the spray of the falls in the morning and the velvet of green moss on rocks. Ruth knew a person who knew a person who had a cousin who had a friend who Paul liked to tell stories about, and he talked about something with a crocodile and something with a gun and how it all got very messy very quickly. Ruth would slap his red fleece coat every time he pretended these stories were his own.
They wrote about things like that, details; they were infatuated with the minuscule and the insignificant and one became very very tired of reading about the temperature of the bath water and about how many chandeliers burned out that night of the big storm.
We remembered Ruth because she always smelled like flowers and she wore a violet behind her ear, and a Calla lily when abroad. We remembered Paul because he would lean down and smell the violet and out it would fall onto the cold stone floor and Ruth would slap his red fleece jacket and rest her hand there on the wool, affectionately.
Paul and Ruth made love in a canopy bed with the curtains open. Paul grew an old heart very quickly and it showed in the way his scrawl was crooked when he wrote. Ruth would place her hands like a four-facet diamond on his chest and tell him to breath and when he did the whole world lifted herself up on her hind legs and Paul could peek under the tablecloth for just a moment. He brushed out the dust every now and then and shined Ruth’s patent shoes.
Paul was a diplomat and Ruth was not. She kissed the back of his neck when they were in a marble room and the small of his back when they were in a brick room and the backs of his hands when they were in a room furnished with wood. Sometimes she was caught kneeling down on a brick red floor with her brick red lips on the abalone sliver beneath his jumper.
They wrote last week and Paul and Ruth were taking a long drive to somewhere-but-they-forgot-the-name. Paul’s old heart grew very young again in the wind from the open roof of the yellow car they took and Ruth’s hair blew above her like a palm tree swaying.
Paul and Ruth traveled aimlessly, and loved aimlessly, and Paul became an explorer, and Ruth died of a young heart that could not hold all of the world.
it’s funny how the 1996 ‘emma' is one of the movies i really watched most as a kid (along with 'sense and sensibility', 'sleepless in seattle', 'you've got mail', 'tootsie' and others) - thanks to my mum - but it's only now that i've been rewatching it several times that i finally get all the allegeations and hints and double/hidden meanings and all the emotional as well as social details.
what makes it extra surprising is that i’ve known the movie practically by heart for so many years and i still discover things. and it’s also now that i really appreciate fine things like jeremy northam’s detailed and miniature facial expression changes which are perfect even when the camera focuses on gwyneth completely (or makes the audience follow emma). i’m being serious. and it’s not just because as a little girl i wanted mr knightley to be my husband sometimes. just watch him, all those tiny changes and movements in his expression whenever emma says or does something.
that’s about it .. but now i think the movie is even a better one that i thought it to be when i was younger. hope that makes sense. :)
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