Я беременна.

→

t.a.: Write a paper!
me: okay. about what
t.a.: Your paper should have a well-developed thesis.
me: yes but what should it be about
t.a.: We have looked at a wide range of topics in this class.
me: ...
t.a.: The final paper will be 20% of your grade.
me: .............
t.a.: There is a wide range of research resources at your disposal.
me: BUT WHAT DO I HAVE TO DO
t.a.:
me:
t.a.:
me:
t.a.: Write a paper!

I like to imagine this bottle is filled with your blood
And when I reach the bottom, I’ll have drank you to death.
I like to pretend that this town washed away in the flood
And when it reached the ocean, even God took a breath.

But the neck of the bottle I’m choking
is colored all wrong,
and the walls of the house that I’m hoping
will fall stand strong—

so I drink as I wait for the world to drink itself.

2012-04-23

There is a vitality, a life force, an energy, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all of time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and it will be lost. The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine how good it is nor how valuable nor how it compares with other expressions. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep the channel open. You do not even have to believe in yourself or your work. You have to keep yourself open and aware to the urges that motivate you. Keep the channel open. No artist is pleased. There is no satisfaction whatever at any time. There is only a queer divine dissatisfaction, a blessed unrest that keeps us marching and makes us more alive than the others.

— Martha Graham

→

canoe shop

in my head the attic of that canoe shop
is empty and stark and cold for I do not
know it because it is not mine
not directly

but for you it is likely covered in little fishhooks
and when you walk in the walls
cast them out and dig into your gray matter
ripping from your epicenter chunks of other
people who used to live inside you who used to live
inside the attic of this canoe shop and though

i can smell what you are smelling i do not know
what you smell and though i can see the
windowsill you see i do not know what once you
laid on it and though i know the pieces of your brain
lay scattered upon the well-worn floorboards i do
not know what pieces of your heart came with it
for your heart is something rightly invisible to me

but for the life you spent here this attic is yours
and because it is yours it will be mine