Power

Living     in the earth-deposits     of our history

Today a backhoe divulged     out of a crumbling flank of earth
one bottle     amber     perfect     a hundred-year-old
cure for fever     or melancholy     a tonic
for living on this earth     in the winters of this climate

Today I was reading about Marie Curie:
she must have known she suffered     from radiation sickness
her body bombarded for years     by the element
she had purified
It seems she denied to the end
the source of the cataracts on her eyes
the cracked and suppurating skin     of her finger-ends
till she could no longer hold     a test-tube or a pencil

She died     a famous woman     denying
her wounds
denying
her wounds     came     from the same source as her power

— Adrienne Rich

Isometry

Revisiting this blog feels like returning to a room you once grew up in, and finding a layer of dust coating your bedspread.

It is very sunny today, and I am remembering the people I've lost over the months. My grandfather, who has no more friends alive, had satay and gado-gado for lunch. I had ayam sambal hijau—fried chicken dressed in a fiery green sauce (for sometimes the most intense sources of heat disguise themselves in the coolest colours: consider, for example, the blue flame of the bunsen burner)—and we walked around NEX with Phoebe, our helper. Though I hate this shopping complex, will I love it once it's gone? Every surface in this dreadful place inscribes questions into my head, none of which hold the promise of a satisfactory answer.

Nothing expresses itself in poetry anymore... I find that if anything, language obfuscates more than it provides expression (whatever that means), and in the microeconomy of meaning, there's no room for a generosity of thought, unless one allows one's writing to admit looseness and half-baked ideas.

I think I could live in Hondarribia, and pop into France for groceries should the need arise. I will own a dog named George, and we will grow old in a tiny house perched on a green hill.

Aubade

There was one summer
that returned many times over
there was one flower unfurling
taking many forms

Crimson of the monarda, pale gold of the late roses

There was one love
There was one love, there were many nights

Smell of the mock orange tree
Corridors of jasmine and lilies
Still the wind blew

There were many winters but I closed my eyes
The cold air white with dissolved wings

There was one garden when the snow melted
Azure and white; I couldn't tell
my solitude from love—

There was one love; he had many voices
There was one dawn; sometimes
we watched it together

I was here
I was here

There was one summer returning over and over
there was one dawn
I grew old watching

— Louise Glück

6 ideas for cafés

1. A café that only sells decaf, yerba mate and a salad of bean sprouts laced with iodised salt. Why do I eat here, you cry all the time. The café owner wears only slate-coloured robes and has an MA in Political Philosophy.

2. A café, buried under a mound of blue mountain coffee beans, forces the visitor to dive into an ocean—tactile and olfactive—representing the consumption and excess of the global capitalist economy. The visitor will find a small trapdoor at the bottom of the mound for him to enter. What are the intersections between food and finance? Café-hoppers are invited to reflect on the possibilities of their late-capitalist struggle while blind-testing a variety of Sumatran coffees, all more vegetal than floral.  

3. A café that tries to commemorate the year 1997. A mixtape, primarily constituted by the exhaustive discography of the Hanson brothers, is played on loop to the dismay of café patrons.

4. A café in a garden, under a stone. It is the world's first microcafé in a fungal colony.

5. A café with one chair and 24 tables, arranged in a line. It is open throughout the week, serving only one customer at a time, who must stay for the entire duration of the day, moving along the tables. The customer first moves together with the shadows cast by daylight; after sunset he will find that internal biological rhythms will lead him to order espresso-based beverages once every 30 minutes. He will call upon these rhythms to choreograph his glacial movements.

6. A café that expresses itself as an equation. When solved, the fabric of space and time will open up to produce the Platonic form of a French press. It has a rather DIY aesthetic, which some might not always appreciate.

"made with wholegrains"

Life update:

Phone screen is glitchy, which is cool and all if only I had the option make everything normal again, just like life, etc. I have accidentally sent multiple friend requests via this glitchy touch screen. Does this represent a broadening of my social circle? 

Monday night and I find myself refusing to do anything academic, watching Girls and eating granola and seaweed and drinking "grapefruit rice beer"— slowly, to avoid ulcer-pain. I have hit new lows this semester. 

In my sadness I have purchased the following items: 4 pairs of socks, 2 types of tea, 1 table mat, and drip coffee. 

frame me

…soon ‘being the bigger person’ will become ‘not giving a shit’.

Thank you Thought Catalog for giving this to the world. Indeed, an infinite number of monkeys typing on an infinite number of typewriters for the rest of eternity will eventually produce the complete works of Shakespeare. This is a little more plausible.

In recent news I have been feeling Pretty Fucking Miserable: classes this semester have been a step backward in terms of my Excitement at the Prospect of Higher Education and I am still in the process of deciding if this is the consequence of making particular decisions about undergraduate life (and living on campus, and enrolling in a programme I feel very lukewarm about, and feeling increasingly out of touch with my sources of vicarious living overseas), or a natural and organic regression into jadedness (how I loathe that word) and boredom. 

I want to paint my face white.

And contort wildly on a stage and then die and then be cremated and let my ashes be consumed by a thousand autistic ravens. Because this is probably the only sensible way to call attention to the complete and utter lack it in the world and its madness, and I am pained by the realisation that I can come to this understanding with the limitations that accompany my own narrow and suspect subjectivity — what of the nett (as it were) madness that sheathes the entire world of sorrow in every moment and memory? 

I'm not brave enough to weigh the world. 

And I'm not competent enough to derive an understanding of the matrix of events that situates me in my feeble constructs of space and time. I synthesise these two points of insecurity and perhaps wrap my textbooks in them like the cheap plastic wrap my mother used to buy from Popular. I don't know what protects me; I only care that it does, and that it remains easily disposable.

Anyway, the main agents of my extreme annoyance may or may not bother reading this, but here's some universal advice: if you keep using your insecurity as an excuse to get what you think you want, you're only going to be left vaguely unsettled with what you think you have. 

found text ii

through beds of violets and tender parsley

fruits and nuts,
with simple sweeteners
and a bit of spice

no contour is blurred

hermeneutic spiral of interpretations

the richest journey in black, green

the wandering
and the homecoming
of Odysseus

letter

You do not possess the capacity to mourn: absence is not a lack but a quality. In the darkroom, your head-spaces, images appear as quickly as they blanch into colour with neither motive nor morphology.

I am struck by your waxwork skin, and might be less surprised to uncover your rusted frame, skeletal and tidy. These shelves store enough heartbreak to gather a field of dust in the still air.

Sincerely.

found text

image as surrogate/placeholder/conduit for emotion

seven haikus that will make u cry

generation to generation 

all of these tourists covered with oil

create anyone

let's talk

better         over

business 

You are a truth-telling people.

Hail

Mary who mattered to me, gone or asleep
among fruits, spilled

in ash, in dust, I did not

leave you. Even now I can't keep from
composing you, limbs & blue cloak

& soft hands. I sleep to the sound

of your name, I say there is no Mary
except the word Mary, no trace

on the dust of my pillowslip. I only

dream of your ankles brushed by dark violets,
of honeybees above you

murmuring into a crown. Antique queen,

the night dreams on: here are the pears
I have washed for you, here the heavy-winged doves,

asleep by the hyacinths. Here I am,

having bathed carefully in the syllables
of your name, in the air and the sea of them, the sharp scent

of their sea foam. What is the matter with me?

Mary, what word, what dust
can I look behind? I carried you a long way

into my mirror, believing you would carry me

back out. Mary, I am still
for you, I am still a numbness for you.

— Mary Szybist