Don’t buy stuff on February 28. Money’s the only thing these dicks understand.
#resist
Don’t buy stuff on February 28. Money’s the only thing these dicks understand.
#resist
ANIME EYES AT CORNERS The neighborhood my father would have called undesirable is the neighborhood I live in, having always preferred being between here and there. One drives slowly to prevent possibly swiping the old white man with low pants who could be described as traipsing by the food pantry. I still feel my own mother installed in me like a GPS. Each person standing at these corners feels to me dangerous. Who is their mother? I wonder. For everyone has a mother. I fear my child will ask this question: Where do they sleep? How do I explain. I do not know where. In parks? She
will fold for them origami beds out of small delicious squares of paper. Or she may not look up, being too intent drawing cat faces, faces that construct a fantasy of fluff and pink noses, their wide eyes’ luster depicted by two symmetrical ovals drawn inside their pupils. These cats look out at us as if regarding us most spectacular creatures from their moon thrones, their feline planet, which is the world in which my child resides, which means she is like her mother and resides in her head, which is our curse. My serial cat-sketcher whose head hosts only concerns regarding the habits of cats makes designs
delicious-strange. Looking into their spectral eyes is like eating a sugar cookie on the moon, or seeing what it might feel like to be conceived of as a star, and it is also an opportunity to experience the persistence of a vision. Caramel, glitter, moisture. Forever glints in the goo of loving eyes, a sticky glance trapped in the amber of a moment. Stay. She will not remember a certain jagged window in the house with a crooked fireplace and how one day we rolled our suitcase out to the car and drove away. Everyone’s mother wants to see her child safe. Do not lurch, do not move between traffic as dirigible, cast your body in apathetic sway
before these air-conditioned cars that cocoon us, our glassy eyes always set upon the specter of this world as if we are watching a gourmet dish being prepared on television. Toss in yourself and mix it up. The world is the oven we bake in, only to deliver ourselves to the mouths of our lovers, to ourselves becoming mothers, mother of this: There is no love larger than these eyes filling notebooks. They are in fact the child’s craft, their shading, her making. Far be it from me to ask her to look up now! But I must ask her to look up now. She looks up. She sees. —Cate Marvin
“She will not remember a certain / jagged window in the house / with a crooked fireplace and how one day we rolled our suitcase / out to the car and drove / away.” — @catemarvin.bsky.social, “Anime Eyes at Corners”
14.12.2024 13:09 — 👍 9 🔁 1 💬 0 📌 0
You Are Hereby Directed to Smile More
open.substack.com/pub/genderde...
By Stephen Crane (1895)
06.11.2024 23:35 — 👍 7 🔁 0 💬 0 📌 0
Many workmen
Built a huge ball of masonry
Upon a mountain-top.
Then they went to the valley below,
And turned to behold their work.
"It is grand," they said;
They loved the thing.
Of a sudden, it moved:
It came upon them swiftly;
It crushed them all to blood.
But some had opportunity to squeal.
