i’m one of those horrible posers who never knows the name of the songs i listen to. but i know who cch pounder is and i know that seeing her in a TV show always makes me happy.
by Wisława Szymborska
translated by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh
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the thing about poetry
is that it haunts you. like a good song, a wonderful piece of art, someone’s scent.
and this is what’s been haunting me:
It’s good we only see each other once a week.
A young man about to move in with his fiancée
died of a sudden heart attack at twenty-six.
One hears these stories all the time.
The heart is trained to handle deprivation,
not unforeseen happiness. Just as when you
throw your arms around me I start to overflow,
but then I think of course, where was she before?
I deserve it and a lot more besides—
your love gets soaked up quickly
and I pull back brooding over something
I never had.
But don’t stop on that account, keep going.
I was brought up to make
the most of accidental brushes with kindness.
My pleasures were collected almost unawares
from stationary models, like the girl
who sat in front of me in tenth grade,
who let me stroke and braid her golden hair
and never acknowledged it.
I wouldn’t know what to do with frontal love;
would I? One snowy winter night in Montreal
I felt so great I danced a flamenco
and insisted that everyone call me Fernando.
But then I was by myself. And last night,
if there are many more nights
like last night with you —
when I think of all my nights of total happiness
I get the panicky sense that the balance
has already tipped,
and I will never again feel free
to pass myself off as a have-not.
Maybe it’s good we only see each other once a week.
But don’t stop on that account, keep going.
He is always too slow, he is always afraid, and he is always being scrutinized. In the winter, he is cold, but if he looks cold he is screamed at. There is no solitude. The constant screaming and the running, along with chronic exhaustion, produce in him a state of low-level panic, which is also a state of acute focus. It is as if his thinking mind, his doubting and critical and interpreting mind, had shut down and been replaced by a simpler mechanism that serves the body. The idea is to throw away his self and, in so doing, find out who he is. A well-trained monk, it is said, lives as though he were already dead: free from attachment, from indecision, from confusion, he moves with no barrier between his will and his act.
A Buddhist monk confronts Japan’s suicide culture.
Watch out for intellect,
because it knows so much it knows nothing
and leaves you hanging upside down,
mouthing knowledge as your heart
falls out of your mouth.
Anne Sexton, The Complete Poems (via observando)
so much better than the date the funny guy, the smart guy, the traveler, the reader, the writer, the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker.
My human, Tessa has tagged me her Android to write a list of gratitudities
Its taken me a couple of days because my emotions short circuited that part of my brain. We’re hoping that with next upgrade, the heart is fianlly rational.
But to do as tasked:
1. There’s a moment in some songs where things change, and its quite hyperbolically, life-changing. I kid you not it’s like finding someone you love. Here are examples:
4 minutes in. then again 4:45
i guess it’s like when the emotional bass drops.
2. Comedians having conversations.
Tina Fey and Jerry Seinfeld. Just check out all the episodes.
The Green Room with Paul Provenza
I also love his conversation with Martin Short and Jack White
3. Radio shows which aren’t really just about radio.
i have a special place in my heart for the lin-manuel miranda musical there.
4. Reddit iAMAs
and that finishes my list.
Shortly before I left him, I told a counselor that my husband was hitting me and showed her the bruises. She held me while I wept in her arms. I then told a close friend that he yelled at me and called me names, but I didn’t yet tell her he was beating me.
My counselor said, “You are taking everything he says, and playing it on repeat over and over again. You have to stop the tape.”
But I couldn’t stop the tape. I heard over and over:
You are a fucking cunt. You are a fucking cunt. You are a fucking cunt. You are a fucking cunt. You are a fucking cunt. You are a fucking cunt. You are a fucking cunt.
And then his voice became my voice:
I am a fucking cunt.
One is too many.
Bartlett is a lovely drag queen.
Sorkin still does great smackdown.
The Period Poem by Dominique Christina
as someone who bleeds and stains everything almost shamelessly, i wish i will be to give my daughter the same power.
(also, i miss my mom.)