Tag: words

Helen Keller at the Rodeo

To despair is to no longer have
experiences, except the idea thereof—
to be cosseted in a black cape,
immune to both sights and sounds.
It’s watching you watch the matador
taunt the bull with the veronica maneuver,
the selfsame motion of a woman of faith,
who wiped the face of Jesus while he walked
to Calvary. Lord, we all crave release,
be it at the ring in Cheyenne, Wyoming
or along Orchard Road, in Singapore.
The world is a welter of homonyms.
How does one finally arrive, get born?
I am writing your name as if I were a Trojan
who expected someone else to smooth the shore.  

—VIRGINIA KONCHAN

Because some or many men have committed crimes
against women, all men benefit from the consequences.
These consequences … include women giving up control
to men; putting men’s needs ahead of [our] own
through fear of annoying, bothering, or “provoking” a
man, thereby remaining incongruous with one’s own
beliefs and perceptions; and remaining “shuffling,” second-class
citizens. (Leidig 1981, pp. 104-205)

hey, i really appreciate your addition to my Chris Burden post. it’s like the first genuine contribution to the discourse around any of my arts related posts. i get so annoyed when people erase my longer captions (usually either contextually or critically relevant to the image in question, especially remarks critical of works i post but don’t like) or they just add a critically-absent ‘this is bullshit’ which i have no time for. anyways, thanks for taking the time to add it. all the best. x

Ah! Of course— thank you so much for the lovely post. I completely understand how you feel about people erasing the larger captions. It happens quite a bit when I am writing something about body art or feminist art and without the context it can just seem like a glorification of an socially un-contextualized, apolitical masochism. Anyway, I love your blog and really appreciate the care you take with your curation, both in terms of the aesthetic flow and because it is obvious that you have an ethics and philosophy behind the work that you catalogue. Each time I look at your page, I challenge myself to slow down on my manic spree posting and move towards a more contextualized curation. Though I am a ways off from that. I’m actually thinking of starting a new blog with a smaller following so I can avoid some of the issues you’ve outlined here. Thank you for what you do—it enriches my life. ❤

Me to me: “do not be like the machine who spoke too much/as if he had a god in him”

The Machine’s Guide to Grief

When you enter
the house of mourning,

do not greet the bereaved:

sit with them on the low ground,
talk with them of the dead.

~

The dying, near the finish, feel
a crumbling: strain into ease, muscles

like wet bread. Count skin
down to bone.

Seal the memory neatly in mesh,
bathe the brow in mourners’ oil.

~

Do not be like the machine who spoke too much,
as if he had a god in him:

sorrys falling through the body like ball bearings,
equipped with slides and springs

to keep the moment buoyant. High in the sky,
a balloon, its heart on fire.

~

Talk with them of the dead:

Once, this was a landscape, not a portrait.
Once, it was enough to chase your love

across a screen, tension ending
at the border. Once, all it took was double-clicking with your pointer

and anyone would open.

~

The old go on: when we browsed the earth like elephants,
when our fingers bruised the ground.

When we called to one another, threw our voices
out of the atmosphere. The wireless body, now strung

and always glowing like a pearl. All night, the room
is lit by flat and sleepless eyes, neon remembering:

body of bread and copper, meat and hinges,
starch and spark.  

–LEAH FALK

When her kiss transforms the Beast, she is furious.

“You should have warned me! Here I was smitten by an exceptional being, and all of a sudden, my fiance becomes an ordinary distinguished young man!”

the 1909 play Beauty and the Beast:  Fantasy in Two Acts by Fernand Noziere, the very first published version of the story where the Beauty is disappointed when the Beast transforms into a human at the end. (via corseque)
Source: corseque

amaalsdrifting:

Slapped the man’s face, then slapped it again,
broke the plate, broke the glass, pushed the cat
from the couch with my feet. Let the baby 
cry too long, then shook him,
let the man walk, let the girl down,
wouldn’t talk, then talked too long,
lied when there was no need
and stole what others had, and never
told the secret that kept me apart from them.
Years holding on to a rope 
that wasn’t there, always sorry
righteous and wrong. Who would
follow that young woman down the narrow hallway?
Who would call her name until she turns?

What I Did Wrong, Marie Howe

THE ILLUSION

Consider our mad loves:
J's for B that he only knew after
she ripped out the hook. Smell rain
and whose name do you say? G and R
seem okay but A's ripping the cover off
T's book, the cashier then asking if
he'd like a damage discount and who
doesn't deserve a damage discount?
The heart itself apparently
can be eaten, singed on a bed
of baby greens. Half step, half step,
clap, throw the hive upon the lap.
A silver head floats in the corn.
At least M has his daughter.
A silver head floats at the portal.
Like a dried gourd, the rattle K makes.
The dream bread falls through the dream
hands. Two seconds it took you to do
what you did to me. Here's a breast,
an eye. Here's a necessity.
Flinchclatter dovespun sundrove
heartsprung and sometimes the wreckage
assumes recognizable shapes.
Sure it does. Touch this. Maybe
your father was right to hate me.
I was running as fast as I could.
Maybe faster.
Forever and forever and forever.

© 2001 DEAN YOUNG