rhiannonstone: (the real me)
Sex Without Love
Sharon Olds

How do they do it, the ones who make love
without love? Beautiful as dancers,
gliding over each other like ice-skaters
over the ice, fingers hooked
inside each other's bodies, faces
red as steak, wine, wet as the
children at birth whose mothers are going to
give them away. How do they come to the
come to the come to the God come to the
still waters, and not love
the one who came there with them, light
rising slowly as steam off their joined
skin? These are the true religious,
the purists, the pros, the ones who will not
accept a false Messiah, love the
priest instead of the God. They do not
mistake the lover for their own pleasure,
they are like great runners: they know they are alone
with the road surface, the cold, the wind,
the fit of their shoes, their over-all cardio-
vascular health--just factors, like the partner
in the bed, and not the truth, which is the
single body alone in the universe
against its own best time.
rhiannonstone: (the real me)
This, so very much:
We need to move away from this constant need of coming across as calm, cool and collected. We weren’t built to be calm, cool, and collected. If we were, it wouldn’t feel so fucking exhausting all the time. It would, you know, come naturally to us. You know what comes naturally to human beings though? Being open, being messy, being raw, being unfiltered, having lots of feelings. Why should we have to stifle our true nature? Let’s go after the things we want, let’s love each other brutally and honestly, and not worry about the consequences. Let’s release the feelings inside of us and let them land somewhere special. Otherwise, we might have a lifetime of longing in front of us.

—Ryan O’Connell, You Need To Go After The Things You Want
rhiannonstone: (Default)
I love that modern (and some not-so-modern) technology allows me to: 1) Find out that my sister and her husband are celebrating their first anniversary at a local-to-them hotel tonight, 2) Discover which hotel, and 3) Sneakily order celebratory goodies to be sent to their room, all within the space of half an hour from 3,000 miles away. And less than an hour later I was able to watch their discovery of their surprise delivery unfold on Facebook. Yay technology!

And, once again, happy anniversary to [profile] yamantha and John. I'm glad you feel so loved today, because you are indeed loved and supported, both as awesome individuals and as a beautiful couple. We gotta celebrate love wherever it is found.


Here are some ephemeral celebrations of technology, language, and art:
rhiannonstone: (Default)
Happy Valentine's Day!

This is our biggest holiday at work--so much so that we have our company holiday party in February instead of December--but since we're an Internet retailer, all the craziness stopped at the Overnight shipping cutoff yesterday afternoon, and today is a day of rest.

So I'm taking the afternoon off to get my new tattoo started. Squee!


Because I have a giant schoolgirl crush on most of you, here are the cards I would fill your pretty pink-and-red construction paper envelopes with:
rhiannonstone: (Default)
Happy Thanksgiving!

In past years I've posted detailed lists of all the things, big and small, that I have to be thankful for. I've got a lot to be thankful for this year, too--a steady job and good health and lots of little luxuries--but now more than ever I am most grateful for the abundance of love and friendship in my life. Without that, nothing else I have would matter.


Still worried about getting the turkey just right? Tante Mary has the secret to save your Thanksgiving: just put the fucking turkey in the oven.

And more Thanksgiving food advice:
rhiannonstone: (the real me)
Once again, Jonathan Carroll posts beautiful poetry that pierces me right through the heart. I am always worried about being too much.

The Too Much
Christa Bell

Couldn’t have been more beautiful
Than I was last night.
I couldn’t have been sexier,
Or more luscious.
My ass couldn’t have been bigger
Or glowed more brightly.
My teeth couldn’t have been whiter,
Skin softer,
Hair shinier.
I couldn’t have smelled any sweeter,
Been nicer,
Or more holy.

And still I was not enough
For you.
‘Not enough,’
My friends tell me,
Will never be my issue.
They say it’s ‘the too much’
That leaves lovers like me
Strangled by our own question marks.

You see—
Some women love lightly,
Like whispers wrapped in spun sugar.
And these are the ones who make it so hard
For the blue-black molasses
Ever-lasting taffy kind of love
That overwhelms the tongue.
They make it hard for those of us who,
Due to circumstances beyond our control,
Are destined to always
Over-love with a vengeance. Read more... )


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