I’m against suffering, but when it occurs, why waste the experience?
People always say that it hurts at night and apparently screaming into your pillow at 3am is the romantic equivalent of being heartbroken. But sometimes it’s 9am on a Tuesday morning and you’re standing at the kitchen bench waiting for the toast to pop up. And the smell of dusty sunlight and earl gray tea makes you miss him so much you don’t know what to do with your hands.
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The aftermath of nails
has blurred with that of hands,
and of bite, and beat, of grip
and of skin upon snaking skin.
At long, lurid last, it is a gift to know
precisely what one wants. Dear body,
may you always remember the private
ecstasy of being utterly used,
the capacity to heal, again and again;
the meditation of the recovering flesh
was never an accident, never a whim
of intoxicated atoms stumbling back to their
homes, never an unplanned dissonance
in the chords drawn like silk
from the haunted attic of your mouth,
never the careless rain drop that spread itself
upon your face instead of the ocean’s.
This body was designed for twist and bend,
tumble and wrap. The pulse in your neck
named you welt, prayed you pounding muscle
rounder than fist, painted you blindfold,
blessed you into auto asphyxia.
What is faith, if not the surrender of neck
to a lover’s hands, writhing in sheets,
watching the room nearly fade into black?
Dear body, simply put,
there is no other way to reach the aftermath.
There is no other path to the wound asking you
to watch in transfixion, as it closes,
again, again. I have spent enough years
pleading nonsense to the wound.
It knows what it is doing. Watch its
magic, its sutured song and dance.
It has only ever opened for this.
You are so used to your features, you don’t know how beautiful you look to a stranger.
Be humble for you are made of earth.
Be noble for you are made of stars.
I love sarcastic people with high vocabularies
The need for mystery is greater than the need for an answer.
They quietly ate a while longer, going for seconds after savoring the first plate. The crack of thunder startled Keira, then she calmed at the applause of pouring rain. Over the years, she’d grown to love the sounds of a storm. “You ever have a memory that…that you wished would go away, but later was glad that it didn’t?” Alexis and Luisa nodded in agreement. “Storms bring that out for me. It’s the most intense memory I have of my parents. It used to hurt me really badly. But I’m older now. I have a different idea of what love is.” She collected her thoughts for a moment, then continued.
“My dad was always the brightest light in a room. Sometimes just looking at him would make me feel better. But when I was feeling so bad that he couldn’t cheer me up, he still helped me feel alive. Just being around him was like that. But he was private, too. He didn’t talk about things that were hurting him. He mostly tried to give his energy to other people. When I was ten, his parents died. His mother died first, and then his dad died a few hours later. Like he was following her. My dad took it really hard because the last time they had talked, they were arguing, and they never resolved what was wrong. A few days after they died, I went to bed early, then this loud thunder woke me up. It scared me, and I went to my parents’ room to lay with them. But they weren’t there. I ran downstairs and saw the front door was open. The rain was so hard it was hitting the porch and then flying through the doorway onto me. But I barely noticed; I was watching them.”
As she spoke, the sound of the rain outside merged with the sound of the storm she was recalling, and together they were so vocal, she could hardly hear her own voice. Luisa and Alexis were paying rapt attention. “Dad was standing near the tree in our front yard. I could hear him crying out, even through that storm. His arms were spread out like he was asking something to hit him. And behind him, mom was making her way out there, struggling to stay on her feet against the rain and wind. She finally reached him and wrapped her arms around his waist. He was still crying out. His arms fell, then they wrapped around her. I don’t know if I’m remembering it wrong but it seemed like the storm got worse then. But they didn’t move, or fall. Somehow my ten-year-old mind recognized that this was a private moment for them, and I went back upstairs before they’d turn around and see me. But I stayed up, listening for them to come back to their room. Finally they did. I went downstairs, got the mop and bucket from the back and cleaned up the water from the floor by the front door. After that, I put the mop and bucket away and went to sleep in my bed. I wanted to sleep with them. But I knew dad didn’t want me to see him like that.”
Alexis reached over and held her hand firmly. Luisa spoke. “I am glad you remembered that. I hope you always do.” The sounds of the storm in her memory continued their roar. The rain hitting the roof weakened. “I think I will.” She could still barely hear her own voice.
As Virginia Hughes noted in a recent piece for National Geographic’s Phenomena blog, the most common depiction of a synapse (that communicating junction between two neurons) is pretty simple:
Signal molecules leave one neuron from that bulby thing, float across a gap, and are picked up by receptors on the other neuron. In this way, information is transmitted from cell to cell … and thinking is possible.
But thanks to a bunch of German scientists - we now have a much more complete and accurate picture. They’ve created the first scientifically accurate 3D model of a synaptic bouton (that bulby bit) complete with every protein and cytoskeletal element.
This effort has been made possible only by a collaboration of specialists in electron microscopy, super-resolution light microscopy (STED), mass spectrometry, and quantitative biochemistry.
says the press release. The model reveals a whole world of neuroscience waiting to be explored. Exciting stuff!
Credit: Benjamin G. Wilhelm, Sunit Mandad, Sven Truckenbrodt, Katharina Kröhnert, Christina Schäfer, Burkhard Rammner, Seong Joo Koo, Gala A. Claßen, Michael Krauss, Volker Haucke, Henning Urlaub, Silvio O. Rizzoli
You want to say Hi to the cute girl on the subway. How will she react? Fortunately, I can tell you with some certainty, because she’s already sending messages to you. Looking out the window, reading a book, working on a computer, arms folded across chest, body away from you = do not disturb. So, y’know, don’t disturb her. Really. Even to say that you like her hair, shoes, or book. A compliment is not always a reason for women to smile and say thank you. You are a threat, remember? You are Schrödinger’s Rapist. Don’t assume that whatever you have to say will win her over with charm or flattery. Believe what she’s signaling, and back off.
If you speak, and she responds in a monosyllabic way without looking at you, she’s saying, “I don’t want to be rude, but please leave me alone.” You don’t know why. It could be “Please leave me alone because I am trying to memorize Beowulf.” It could be “Please leave me alone because you are a scary, scary man with breath like a water buffalo.” It could be “Please leave me alone because I am planning my assassination of a major geopolitical figure and I will have to kill you if you are able to recognize me and blow my cover.”
On the other hand, if she is turned towards you, making eye contact, and she responds in a friendly and talkative manner when you speak to her, you are getting a green light. You can continue the conversation until you start getting signals to back off.
The fourth point: If you fail to respect what women say, you label yourself a problem.
There’s a man with whom I went out on a single date—afternoon coffee, for one hour by the clock—on July 25th. In the two days after the date, he sent me about fifteen e-mails, scolding me for non-responsiveness. I e-mailed him back, saying, “Look, this is a disproportionate response to a single date. You are making me uncomfortable. Do not contact me again.” It is now October 7th. Does he still e-mail?
Yeah. He does. About every two weeks.
This man scores higher on the threat level scale than Man with the Cockroach Tattoos. (Who, after all, is guilty of nothing more than terrifying bad taste.) You see, Mr. E-mail has made it clear that he ignores what I say when he wants something from me. Now, I don’t know if he is an actual rapist, and I sincerely hope he’s not. But he is certainly Schrödinger’s Rapist, and this particular Schrödinger’s Rapist has a probability ratio greater than one in sixty. Because a man who ignores a woman’s NO in a non-sexual setting is more likely to ignore NO in a sexual setting, as well.
So if you speak to a woman who is otherwise occupied, you’re sending a subtle message. It is that your desire to interact trumps her right to be left alone. If you pursue a conversation when she’s tried to cut it off, you send a message. It is that your desire to speak trumps her right to be left alone. And each of those messages indicates that you believe your desires are a legitimate reason to override her rights.
For women, who are watching you very closely to determine how much of a threat you are, this is an important piece of data.
an excerpt from Phaedra Starling’s “Schrödinger’s Rapist: or a guy’s guide to approaching strange women without being maced” (via lostgrrrls)
HOLY FUCK THE TRUTH.
Can every one of my male followers read this? And please, before you get defensive (“I would never rape anyone!”) keep in mind, women being afraid of Shrodinger’s Rapists (oh my god i still can’t get over the encompassing brilliance of this phrase) is a conditioned, learned response from being immersed in rape culture and the evolution of sexism and sexual violence in our society from the day we’re born. And unfortunately, it’s very difficult to unlearn without the efforts of all genders to dismantle it. Which is where you come in.
It’s also just rude and disrespectful to patently ignore what someone has told you regarding their personal space, body, and time. Get a clue.
I will always reblog this. Always.
So if you speak to a woman who is otherwise occupied, you’re sending a subtle message. It is that your desire to interact trumps her right to be left alone.
Oh my lord, everything in this.
Stop loving people into corners.
Highly sensitive people are too often perceived as weaklings or damaged goods. To feel intensely is not a symptom of weakness, it is the trademark of the truly alive and compassionate. It is not the empath who is broken, it is society that has become dysfunctional and emotionally disabled. There is no shame in expressing your authentic feelings. Those who are at times described as being a ‘hot mess’ or having ‘too many issues’ are the very fabric of what keeps the dream alive for a more caring, humane world. Never be ashamed to let your tears shine a light in this world.
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So over the past few months, I’ve been putting more energy into utilizing live music/looping with my poems. I’m mainly looking to do this with poems in the book. I’ve had success with a few so far:
From Leadbelly to Kurt Cobain
Frida in Detroit
Esperanza Spalding Plays Her Bass at the White House (A video example is here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=mkOb4ffyvj4#t=61)
Are there any that jump out at you as poems that would be good with live music/looping? If so, I’d love your suggestions. Thanks!
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