End of March

a dream:

sometimes I think I want to edit short story collections, be an editor like that, with this craving of curating a book inside of me. But I think I would want something artistic too. I wish I could work on a really nice online magazine, or a series of little collaborative zines. Something with people coming together to create something nice.
It doesn’t need to be original or groundbreaking, that has never interested me, but I want to be a builder of things, the one that will look at all these disconnected things and use her thread to sew them all together into something nice and enjoyable.
I do not know if I can do this or how or when, but I would very very much like it.

2 years ago ⋅ 10 notes


let the bath water run

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number of books that I own but haven’t read yet: 55
Maybe I should get on that…

2 years ago ⋅ 9 notes


(by Katrin Berge)

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foxandfayvel replied to your post: you know you live in the countryside when:

“you never find the need to get properly dressed when you go outside because there is absolutely NO chance of anybody seeing you.” this, this, this. There’s nothing better in the world than getting the post in your pajamas and wellington boots.

yes! (well I live so deep in the countryside I have to drive 15 minutes to get my post). I go out to get wood with mismatched and oversized pajamas and wellington boots, my hair dirty and/or not brushed without a care in the world.
It’s awesome :) x

2 years ago ⋅ 6 notes ⋅ foxandfayvel   

(Source: ironspy)

2 years ago ⋅ 8,401 notes ⋅ VIA ⋅ SOURCE ⋅ tales   

you know you live in the countryside when:

2 years ago ⋅ 31 notes

Dear Shirley,

Do you have shivers before a storm comes? Mine run up and down my spine, and come to silently rest in my fingertips, so that they quiver ever so lightly. They are so electrified it feels like I can touch the air, like a pressure against my skin. I want to tear into it, see if it opens a door into another world, ripe and young and new.
Things are often too bright for me to stare at, and I only rely on my fingers to tell me of what they are. There is a sort of knowledge that can only be acquired by the way things feel against the pads of your fingers. I find that the skin knows much more than we think, maybe we have been looking in all the wrong places for dreams, and ideas, and sadness and love.
There is a place I go where all is dark outside and the shivers make my legs jittery and my eyes are useless. My skin hums a song, and lights up the sky as it tears open. Maybe there is not much difference between our skin and the Earth’s. Maybe we have been tearing away at doors, opening them with electrified outer-shells, since the day we let our skin touch the air, and felt the weight of the world upon it.

Love, MJ xxx

2 years ago ⋅ 12 notes ⋅ letters   


by thistledown spirits

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Happy Halloween from the Sanderson sisters!

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Anonymous: a memory from your child, one that means the most?

I have so many precious memories.

I think I remember the house where I grew up most fondly. It’s not a specific memory, but this place is at the center of most of my most precious childhood moments. It was a nice house with a huge backyard full of trees that I would climb all the time. My first friend was a tree in fact. I had a pool where I pretended to be a mermaid and where my friends and I would swim for hours playing games. There was a wood behind the house as well, where the backyard ended where I would cross-country ski in the winter and have many adventure trips with my friends and all kinds of make-believe. The house was cozy and full of light and there was a wood stove in the basement and a play room where I would do craft and a TV area where I would watch movies and cartoons, sometimes while drying from a shower in front of the fire, and play super nintendo. Oh and so much more. It was nice.

I moved away when I was 13 and my parents got separated, but I miss it to this day (the woods don’t exist anymore though, and several trees were cut from the property. The house and land I knew don’t exist anymore, but I will always remember them).

2 years ago ⋅ 4 notes ⋅ personal   
Anonymous: What did you think of The Collector?

I really really liked it. It was so unsettling and strange, mostly because it was presented in such a matter-of-fact way, very direct too. It isn’t the kind of book I usually read, or like, and I had my doubts before starting it, but I was so pleasantly surprised.
I also liked the division between the point of view of the male character and than the more personal journal entries of the female character. It was a drastic change of tone.

To put the POV of the captor before the victim’s was a great move I think (as was not intermingling them). The captor’s voice is so stark and simple and he so does not feel the extent of his actions, but it does not delve into his psychosis or anything (mostly because it is narrated in the first-person), that you feel like digging between the lines to try and understand what is going on, while being utterly spooked out, because the simplicity of the voice is reassuring, but the context and plot completely strange and scary. And from seeing things through his eyes, you almost forget about her, about his victim, as you are not afforded any insights into her mind, just his own interpretations of her.
then you switch to her journal entries, her voice, and you are so completely reminded that she is human, that you are forced to face the terrible fact of what has happened to her more strongly. The way she goes on and on about her old love and her life about her philosophies as if she was in her room at home, except that you know she is writing this because she needs something to hold onto and because, deep down, she has hope that she might escape one day, though you, as the reader, after spending so much time with the captor, you have a totally different view of things. And you feel for her. And she is so brave and wants so much to live and be free and you are forced to understand the terribleness of her situation through her.
And the ending, oh the ending, chilling, really.

2 years ago ⋅ 4 notes ⋅ pieces