“In Rome a vagina is una fica, a term deriving from the fig, a great thing, a delightful gift, a ribboned fruit. Among young Romans, the expression fica is a way to convey something extraordinarily good, akin to “cool.” They even make it into a superlative—fichissimo, meaning that something is the “cuntest” and very good indeed. Una fica is not only a sexually attractive woman, it is anything worthy of possession or experience. Imagine an American guy saying: “Wow, that is so vagina!” You can’t.”—
Too young to hold on and too old to just break free and run.
on me & B’s 9-year anniversary, I still feel this so much… growing up together, living together in the tension between these feelings, redefining, renegotiating what love is and what we are to each other every day/week/month/year… it’s been a beautiful journey so far.
He wonders: will become a regular person? Something has gone wrong; his vaccination didn’t take; at the Boy-Scout campfire initiation he only pretended to be deeply moved, as he pretends at this hour that is it not so bad after all in the funhouse, and that he has a little limp. How long will it last? He envisions a truly astonishing funhouse, incredibly complex yet utterly controlled from a great central switchboard like the console of a pipe organ. Nobody had enough imagination. He could design such a place himself, wiring and all, and he’s only thirteen years old. He would be its operator: panel lights would show what was up in every cranny of its cunning of its multifarious vastness; a switch-flick would ease this fellow’s way, complicate that’s, to balance things out; if anyone seemed lost or frightened, all the operator had to do was.
He wishes he had never entered the funhouse. But he has. Then he wishes he were dead. But he’s not. Therefore he will construct funhouses for others and be their secret operator—though he would rather be among the lovers for whom funhouses are designed.
“For I am—or I was—one of those people who pride themselves on their willpower, on their ability to make a decision and carry it through. This virtue, like most virtues, is ambiguity itself. People who believe they are strong-willed and the masters of their destiny can only continue to believe this by becoming specialists in self-deception. Their decisions are not really decisions at all—a real decision makes one humble, one knows that it is at the mercy of more things than can be named—but elaborate systems of evasion, of illusion, designed to make themselves and the world appear to be what they and the world are not. This is certainly what my decision, made so long ago in Joey’s bed, came to… Every constant motion, of course, does not prevent an occasional mysterious drag, a drop, like an airplane hitting an air pocket.”—James Baldwin, Giovanni’s Room, 1956
“But people can’t, unhappily, invent their mooring posts, their lovers and their friends, anymore than they can invent their parents. Life gives these and also takes them away and the great difficulty is to say Yes to life.”—James Baldwin, Giovanni’s Room, 1956
“This is one of the few fundamental physiological and psychological aspects of myself in which I feel I was dealt a winning hand. Otherwise, I have all kinds of astoundingly unromantic and embarrassing health problems and super-annoying obsessive compulsions, I get depressed, my skin is all weird, my hair is stupid, my cock is nothing to write home about (although it has been called “pretty”) and I am extremely shy.”—Jamie Stewart of Xiu Xiu is writing about bisexuality for HuffPo. we are totes twinsies in, like, every way, it seems!
Give me the strongest cheese, the one that stinks best; and I want the good wine, the swirl in crystal surrendering the bruised scent of blackberries, or cherries, the rich spurt in the back of the throat, the holding it there before swallowing. Give me the lover who yanks open the door of…
“'These words.' They are English words. I have no other language. Since my slave-ancestors left off building the Pyramids to wander in the wilderness of Sinai, they have spoken a handful of generally obscure languages—Hebrew, Aramaic, twelfth-century French perhaps, Yiddish for a thousand years. Since the coming forth from Egypt five millennia ago, mine is the first generation to think and speak and write wholly in English. To say that I have been thoroughly assimilated into English would of course be the grossest understatement—what is the English language (and its poetry) if not my passion, my blood, my life? But that perhaps is an overstatement. A language while we are zealously acquiring it can become a passion and a life. A language owned in the root of the tongue is loved without being the object of love: there is no sense of separateness from it. Do I love my eyeballs? No; but sight is everything.”—Cynthia Ozick, preface to Bloodshed and Three Novellas, 1976
“I use the word “love” here not merely in the personal sense but as a state of being, or a state of grace—not in the infantile American sense of being made happy but in the tough and universal sense of quest and daring and growth.”—James Baldwin, The Fire Next Time, 1963