Yesterday, I ate a pomegranate
with my bare hands.
One of the seeds
had a perfect
wound, spitting red juice
up my arm.
For a moment,
I could understand
the grace in monsters.
Benjamin Clime, “Pomegranate I.” (via exoticwild)
Everyone I Have Ever Slept With 1963-1995 - Tracey Emin
Everyone I Have Ever Slept With was a tent appliquéd with 102 names of the people she had slept with up to the time of its creation in 1995. The title is often misinterpreted as a euphemism indicating sexual partners and the work termed “a list of all the people that Emin has ever had sex with”, but is in fact intended more inclusively:
“Some I’d had a shag with in bed or against a wall some I had just slept with, like my grandma. I used to lay in her bed and hold her hand. We used to listen to the radio together and nod off to sleep. You don’t do that with someone you don’t love and don’t care about.”
The names include family, friends, drinking partners, lovers and even two numbered foetuses. The name of former boyfriend, Billy Childish, could be seen prominently through the tent opening. The tent was square and coloured blue; its shape was reminiscent of the Margate Shell Grotto, with which Emin was very familiar from childhood; inside on the floor of the tent was the text, "With myself, always myself, never forgetting"
"For a star to be born, there is one thing that must happen: a gaseous nebula must collapse.
This is not your destruction.
This is your birth."
"All I ever did to that apartment was hang fifty yards of yellow theatrical silk across the bedroom windows, because I had some idea that the gold light would make me feel better, but I did not bother to weight the curtains correctly and all that summer the long panels of transparent golden silk would blow out the windows and get tangled and drenched in afternoon thunderstorms. That was the year, my twenty-eight, when I was discovering that not all of the promises would be kept, that some things are in fact irrevocable and that it had counted after all, every evasion and ever procrastination, every word, all of it."
"Goodbye to All That," Joan Didion (via exoticwild)
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