If this doesn’t make you sweaty, you’re not manic enough.

— 1 day ago with 2 notes
II
Since she was very young she’s dreamed of tornadoes. Sometiems animal packs of funnels driving through a field of pale yellow corn. A limestone sky is always setting, hosting various sizes and intensities of live, animate storms— cells seeming to have intent and emotion, destroying exactly what they want to destroy, eventually setting their furious minds on coming for her. Not all of the tornadoes in her dreams have souls. There was the storm in which she died. That storm felt dumb and blind and impossibly thoughtless. No desire, no pattern, no want for control over it’s own winds at all. But it swept through an old hotel and killed her instantly. She remembers how it felt to die instantly— it felt not instant at all. Her body turned to one bruise, her throat parched, her eyes burning. And then she was reborn as exactly the same human being, but some bizarre luck, and walked out into the lobby again, only the lobby was eras forward, a futuristic interpretation of what the lobby had been. And in that future lobby, she sought out her old cat, her ex lovers, her husband, her mother and father. Somehow, they were all there where the tornado laid ruin once, as if her whole narrative had been swept by this dumb giant of a storm into one specific dimension, one specific place for no specific reason. She sighs. Her head hurts. The afternoon is nearly gone and she can’t remember what she’s done with it. She reaches into the box of books and pulls out one title. She licks her hand and wipes the dust from it’s cover clean. The Story of the Eve by Bataille. She opens the soft, corner curled cover to an inscription: ” …. is for the …. ” It is not a neat scrawl. It is nearly gone. And good riddance. But she remembers the night. She hated the book as a gift. She hated the young man who gave it to her. His illness and his ego— the empty bottle of wine he left at her curb when she wouldn’t let him back into her world. The note in the bottle she never cared to retrieve. She hated the sound of breaking glass. It unsettled her then as it does now. The stories he had told her about taking wild cross country trips with his vagrant teenage friends as he brushed her hair away from her face had made her feel sick to her stomach. The way he played the piano too hard and without any nuance made her sick to her stomach. The way he eventually gained access to her little one bedroom apartment again by threatening to off himself, only to leave her at her most vulnerable in the middle of the night because he was bored with her melancholy made her sick to her stomach. … It’s so quiet now, she thinks. Am I inside the eye?

-Shannon Moore Shepherd

II

Since she was very young she’s dreamed of tornadoes. Sometiems animal packs of funnels driving through a field of pale yellow corn. A limestone sky is always setting, hosting various sizes and intensities of live, animate storms— cells seeming to have intent and emotion, destroying exactly what they want to destroy, eventually setting their furious minds on coming for her. Not all of the tornadoes in her dreams have souls. There was the storm in which she died. That storm felt dumb and blind and impossibly thoughtless. No desire, no pattern, no want for control over it’s own winds at all. But it swept through an old hotel and killed her instantly. She remembers how it felt to die instantly— it felt not instant at all. Her body turned to one bruise, her throat parched, her eyes burning. And then she was reborn as exactly the same human being, but some bizarre luck, and walked out into the lobby again, only the lobby was eras forward, a futuristic interpretation of what the lobby had been. And in that future lobby, she sought out her old cat, her ex lovers, her husband, her mother and father. Somehow, they were all there where the tornado laid ruin once, as if her whole narrative had been swept by this dumb giant of a storm into one specific dimension, one specific place for no specific reason. She sighs. Her head hurts. The afternoon is nearly gone and she can’t remember what she’s done with it. She reaches into the box of books and pulls out one title. She licks her hand and wipes the dust from it’s cover clean. The Story of the Eve by Bataille. She opens the soft, corner curled cover to an inscription: ” …. is for the …. ” It is not a neat scrawl. It is nearly gone. And good riddance. But she remembers the night. She hated the book as a gift. She hated the young man who gave it to her. His illness and his ego— the empty bottle of wine he left at her curb when she wouldn’t let him back into her world. The note in the bottle she never cared to retrieve. She hated the sound of breaking glass. It unsettled her then as it does now. The stories he had told her about taking wild cross country trips with his vagrant teenage friends as he brushed her hair away from her face had made her feel sick to her stomach. The way he played the piano too hard and without any nuance made her sick to her stomach. The way he eventually gained access to her little one bedroom apartment again by threatening to off himself, only to leave her at her most vulnerable in the middle of the night because he was bored with her melancholy made her sick to her stomach. … It’s so quiet now, she thinks. Am I inside the eye?

-Shannon Moore Shepherd

— 1 day ago with 9 notes

Story of the Eye

words & music by Shannon Moore Shepherd

In the broke back motel
I knew you well
By incandescent light,
You opened up your eyes
To the public tv
You said why don’t we
Partake of this bathtub wine.
What’s yours is always mine, right?

Incandescent light
Opened up your eyes.

Go West young guys
Preaching Bataille
And looking for a fight
In the middle of the night.
Sundown, Poncho,
Let’s get in your Bronco
And drive…

Looking for a fight,
Middle of the night

But no one knows you,
Not like I do.

— 2 days ago with 1 note

"Story of the Eye" little murder ballad I wrote.

— 2 days ago with 1 note
(pats back of individual, tries to remember how to position facial muscles to appear compassionate, fails, instead looks as if there is a math problem to solve or has just gotten sprayed in face with kitten piss. wonders if misanthropy can be buffed away like tarnish. decides probably not.)

(pats back of individual, tries to remember how to position facial muscles to appear compassionate, fails, instead looks as if there is a math problem to solve or has just gotten sprayed in face with kitten piss. wonders if misanthropy can be buffed away like tarnish. decides probably not.)

(Source: curiovsly, via tessameow)

— 4 days ago with 48100 notes
humansofnewyork:

"I’m writing a play about the nature of truth, and how difficult it is to convey the truth when everybody is speaking a different language. For example, the word ‘terrorist’ and the word ‘freedom fighter’ are used to refer to the exact same people at the exact same time. With everyone speaking differently, truth is almost impossible to agree upon. Yet believing in the existence of truth is the only thing that keeps us from devolving into tribal warfare. Because without the existence of truth, the person who is most powerful becomes the person who is right."

humansofnewyork:

"I’m writing a play about the nature of truth, and how difficult it is to convey the truth when everybody is speaking a different language. For example, the word ‘terrorist’ and the word ‘freedom fighter’ are used to refer to the exact same people at the exact same time. With everyone speaking differently, truth is almost impossible to agree upon. Yet believing in the existence of truth is the only thing that keeps us from devolving into tribal warfare. Because without the existence of truth, the person who is most powerful becomes the person who is right."

— 4 days ago with 6831 notes
I

The Deja Vu wafts in like a chemical gas, through the cracks in the windows and the registers in the floor, all afternoon. She packs a box with dusty old paperbacks, some water stained or sickly yellowed, some with tiny spiders scrambling from their binding when opened for the first time in years. The sensations: the thing that she knows or the story she has read before begins with packing a box of books. From there, someone gets gravely ill and dies. That’s the final chapter. What goes inbetween, she can’t quite make out. The hallucination is soft and she thinks, perhaps, it has something to do with the dream she had last night of a woman seizuring in a hospital bed, dying of some mysterious illness that began with her tongue turning black. But the woman’s face was not familiar and all the dream impressed upon her, within it’s walls like a haunted house, was a deeply sick dread, so that now she felt accompanied about her day by Death himself. A weary houseguest, somehow influencing the weight of her own limbs and solemn head. Why should any stroke of genius in this box matter, they’re all dead dead dead, she hums to herself inside, a spooky, flat litany, while the summer afternoon light shifts around the room. Something terrible is about to begin, she confirms with her queasy soul, and I’m too tired to begin anything. If it has happened before- if I’ve begun it and ended it sometime, somewhere else- then I must have left a map for myself. Where to look for it? In this box? In my sleep? In a lock of my hair? I need guidance. She addresses Death: Guidance? But he is devastated and staring up at the ceiling. To be expected. She sighs. Who can escort me into this tragedy and out again safely? She looks at you. Her smile is coy and her eyes laugh at her own predicament. Will you help me? She holds your hand lightly and kisses your cheek. Won’t you please help me?
-Shannon Moore Shepherd

I

The Deja Vu wafts in like a chemical gas, through the cracks in the windows and the registers in the floor, all afternoon. She packs a box with dusty old paperbacks, some water stained or sickly yellowed, some with tiny spiders scrambling from their binding when opened for the first time in years. The sensations: the thing that she knows or the story she has read before begins with packing a box of books. From there, someone gets gravely ill and dies. That’s the final chapter. What goes inbetween, she can’t quite make out. The hallucination is soft and she thinks, perhaps, it has something to do with the dream she had last night of a woman seizuring in a hospital bed, dying of some mysterious illness that began with her tongue turning black. But the woman’s face was not familiar and all the dream impressed upon her, within it’s walls like a haunted house, was a deeply sick dread, so that now she felt accompanied about her day by Death himself. A weary houseguest, somehow influencing the weight of her own limbs and solemn head. Why should any stroke of genius in this box matter, they’re all dead dead dead, she hums to herself inside, a spooky, flat litany, while the summer afternoon light shifts around the room. Something terrible is about to begin, she confirms with her queasy soul, and I’m too tired to begin anything. If it has happened before- if I’ve begun it and ended it sometime, somewhere else- then I must have left a map for myself. Where to look for it? In this box? In my sleep? In a lock of my hair? I need guidance. She addresses Death: Guidance? But he is devastated and staring up at the ceiling. To be expected. She sighs. Who can escort me into this tragedy and out again safely? She looks at you. Her smile is coy and her eyes laugh at her own predicament. Will you help me? She holds your hand lightly and kisses your cheek. Won’t you please help me?

-Shannon Moore Shepherd

— 1 week ago with 4 notes
#fiction  #writing  #prose 
Never may we part. So mote it be.

Never may we part. So mote it be.

— 1 week ago with 2 notes
Our little nook of doom.

Our little nook of doom.

— 1 week ago with 2 notes
Got you. @apiarian sniffs my head and It makes me happy.

Got you. @apiarian sniffs my head and It makes me happy.

— 1 week ago with 1 note
Amoureux forever.

Amoureux forever.

— 1 week ago
Do you like drinking cheaply? Sure, we all do. Here’s a list from my very own back pocket of the best places to do that in Peoria, handed over to Whiskey City just in time for the weekend.

Do you like drinking cheaply? Sure, we all do. Here’s a list from my very own back pocket of the best places to do that in Peoria, handed over to Whiskey City just in time for the weekend.

— 1 week ago with 2 notes

sunny summer afternoon song.

— 1 week ago
Meow. @geamoon  je t’adore …

Meow. @geamoon je t’adore …

— 2 weeks ago with 4 notes