esprit-escalier

K. Waddingham

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horology by esprit-escalier, literature

Literature

horology

I could believe the watchmaker had planned it-- Putting teeth and gaps such that we could turn in tandem, Fitting us together in flitting bronze and gold. Sometimes, it's urgent. The incessant ticking of an impatient countdown. The frantic attempts to fit as many I, I, I love, love, love yous (only you) into each hour marked by a grandfatherly bell. Other times, it's comforting. The steady background toll of a carefully wound machine-- The constant reminder in each click Each tick and tock That you love me. That another second has gone by but nothing has changed; that the gears still turn in a pattern that s

portraits of my lover in the summer by esprit-escalier, literature

Literature

portraits of my lover in the summer

a pair of square-rimmed glasses folded neatly on a desk beside a wristwatch, and an iPod, cord tangled. a leather wallet with a cracked bus pass; a backpack with an ALF button and a nalgene tumor. neon socks, hung singly on closet door knobs; a rumpled pair of boxer-briefs on a hardwood floor. three fingers, playing lullabies across a protruding spine; two parted lips, mid-whisper, 'gainst an ear. a high contrast monograph of two bodies intertwined; three photographs of the spaces between breaths.

musings from a still walking shadow by esprit-escalier, literature

Literature

musings from a still walking shadow

"Well, we can't just throw that out." It's 1:20pm on a Wednesday afternoon, and I am sitting (in the fanciest swivel chair I have ever seen) listening to my mother and my grandmother have the same conversation for the umpteenth time (except this time, it's actually valid.) "I mean, it's forty years old at least, but that's still people's information." My mother hands me the oddly shaped binder and points to the elaborate shredder on the floor beside me. "You'll have to shred it." (that's how it came into my head—the word shred on a separate line break) And so it came to pass that I spent an hour tearing out, and then teari

mother always told me never to touch baby birds by esprit-escalier, literature

Retracing Our Fault Lines by esprit-escalier, literature

Literature

Retracing Our Fault Lines

i. He plants little kisses on the backs of my hands, the nape of my neck, the slope of my forehead; little flowers grow in my mind. He is a sun that shines on my face— I am in bloom. ii. She passes me a mug of tea in the tiny, tiled kitchen and our hands brush (mine steady, hers quaking) "I need for what I'm about to tell you to not go anywhere." she says, a nervous smile across her lips. Our words traverse the ocean; our silences trace continents and questions as we both contemplate mutiny. My forehead wrinkles. I throw her a life preserver. (We both know that with this conversation, we could both abandon ship.)

we have different definitions of holiday spirit by esprit-escalier, literature

Civil War by esprit-escalier, literature

Literature

Civil War

I spend ten minutes looking at pictures of metal buildings then another five imagining my nervous system being made of paper-thin steel looking at the little split pill on the desk and silently counting back from a hundred trying to keep my breathing under control. I tell myself lies; That tomorrow will be better, That the side effects will be less, That I will get out of bed tomorrow and love the sun for shining (That I will get out of bed tomorrow, full stop) (That these little split pills will honestly, truly, make things better instead of worse.) My hands always shake. I almost always cry. It is a kind of torture force-feeding

damage control by esprit-escalier, literature

Literature

damage control

in cold canadian winters it gets dark before night really falls. and in this in-between stage, when you turned on the headlights and the radio buttons glowed orange i fingered a loose thread in my jeans and tried to hold onto the thoughts i was having. things were breaking up; thoughts were breaking down (things were just breaking, and i didn't want to admit it.) and while you gripped the steering wheel like you thought it might fly away (like it might still have some life in it, and you had to be sure it was gone) i ran my tongue over my teeth and looked at the stereo clock and thought to myself that we had a personal best (a

it's always cloudy by esprit-escalier, literature

Literature

it's always cloudy

My body has become a stranger. Every day, I wake up and I am meeting it for the first time. (Yesterday, I was nearly incoherent. Today, I am stronger. Tomorrow, the fainting will strike sudden and hard like a cobra— … am i poisoning myself?) I am a spectator to the clenching and un-clenching of my fists. I am losing track of everything. Each time, I awake with hazy thoughts and hurting teeth and my arms feel as if they belong to someone else. His hands brush my skin, but I don't know where, and I don't even really know if it's mine. I collapse on my bed and I close my dead eyes. My limbs sink through the sheets to th

a forest fortress by esprit-escalier, literature

Literature

a forest fortress

i want to burrow into that perfect, nameless space between your neck and your shoulder (i want to hollow it out and make it my home.) i want to lean into your sturdy, browned arms and rest there for hours (i will sit among the blood vessels and sing songs.) i want to climb up to your forest fortress and sit among your leaves (i will trace the veins of your thoughts and rustle them with my fingers.) I want to take refuge among your branches and converse with the birds up there; I want to feel the wind in my hair and not be afraid of falling.

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horology by esprit-escalier, literature

Literature

horology

portraits of my lover in the summer by esprit-escalier, literature

Literature

portraits of my lover in the summer

musings from a still walking shadow by esprit-escalier, literature

Literature

musings from a still walking shadow

mother always told me never to touch baby birds by esprit-escalier, literature

Retracing Our Fault Lines by esprit-escalier, literature

Literature

Retracing Our Fault Lines

we have different definitions of holiday spirit by esprit-escalier, literature

Civil War by esprit-escalier, literature

Literature

Civil War

damage control by esprit-escalier, literature

Literature

damage control

it's always cloudy by esprit-escalier, literature

Literature

it's always cloudy

a forest fortress by esprit-escalier, literature

Literature

a forest fortress

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Arsenic. by staphysagria, literature

Literature

Arsenic.

i. It's just like talking to anyone else ii. I cried when you wrote that, just like when I took your letters down, and when you told me you didn't love me, anymore iii. and, I cannot find a method to pretend that you were just some lover iv. there are people who make me laugh like you never did, but I do not feel safe with any of them; v. and I thought about falling into your arms next year, when you come back, imagined remembering how to feel at home and then remembered vi. in all senses of the word, you will not come back home vii. oh, you over think things and maybe I do, but the things are you.

quod erat demonstrandum by Satah, literature

Literature

quod erat demonstrandum

cyanide and sharpie fumes seem out of place metres away from stretching joggers but here i am looking sad on a beached anchor with a cigarette in the hand that isn't diggings its claws into my thigh while a stranger lays on a towel pulling his knees up to his bare chest exhaling carefully with his ribs sticking out he says, "peaceful day, isn't it?" and i comment on how unseasonable it is and we sit in our different worlds with our headphones off in quiet appreciation of the company and i know it's such a ti

About esprit-escalier

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Artist // Hobbyist // Varied

Oct 31
Canada
Deviant for 12 years
revelationk.tumblr.com
She / Her

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My Bio

"The food might be bad, and the beds might be hard, but at least we're living our own lives." -- Supernatural 1.11

~

""l’homme sensible, comme moi, tout entier à ce qu’on lui objecte, perd la tête et ne se retrouve qu’au bas de l’escalier" ("a sensitive man, such as myself, overwhelmed by the argument levelled against him, becomes confused and can only think clearly again [when he reaches] the bottom of the stairs")"

the staircase wit: figuring out the events in my life through poetry since 2011.

Favourite genre of music: Christian rock; alternative
Favourite photographer: Couldn't ever choose just one
Favourite style of art: Conceptual
Personal Quote: "Life makes the best story."

Favourite Visual Artist

Merat

Favourite Movies

The Prestige

Favourite Bands / Musical Artists

Tree63; Casting Crowns; Billy Joel; Journey;

Favourite Writers

T. S. Eliot

Favourite Gaming Platform

N64, whoot!

Tools of the Trade

A mostly functional mind

Other Interests

Writing, reading, people watching

Profile Comments 15

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lifeuncommon

Apr 8, 2012

Heya! Please don't leave me hanging on #lit-lash's rebooted competition. I feel all alone in week 2.1's gallery and would like some friends to play with next week!