01/03/14 @ 12:47pm
■ lynda barry
Lynda Barry was part Filipina!?!?! What??
Oh only 1/4th but still. Mind still slightly blown.
I guess this shows the difference between actively making something part of who you are and not? Sort of? Thought obviously your ability to choose is reliant on your looks in ‘Murica.
20/02/14 @ 12:23am
■ reverse racism
■ not a thing
■ intelligent textbooks
19/02/14 @ 09:01pm
■ cultural appropriation
■ poc anger
■ pay attention
■ native struggles
■ eating disorders
17/02/14 @ 11:52pm
03/02/14 @ 09:16pm
■ luna's art
25/01/14 @ 07:16pm
21/01/14 @ 03:14am
19/01/14 @ 01:48am
■ janani balasubramanian
■ cheap coffee
there are these dreams.
people say don’t try to write
about your dreams.
they’ve been stuck in your guts
too long; they’ll come out wrong
or too short
or with the wrong faces.
that dreams set down
are always cheap,
not worth the coffee you drank to write them.
but there are these dreams
you need to know to know me.
just like to know me
you need to read matilda
and watch balloon farm
and have staring contests
with my dad
and spend more money on coffee
than you get back in writing.
people tell me to wake up
and don’t be scared
to watch knives go by in real life.
like how this year i will
fly to my parent’s home for new year’s
and open the fridge full of pink lady apples,
which, like my heart, are more expensive
than the other kinds.
and i will cut one of my hearts into quarters
and watch it lay bare and winking its face,
eat it slowly
in my too small bed, uncomfortable
like someone’s elbow you don’t love
spending the night at the small of your back.
the human capacity to find faces is endless.
it’s hard to remember the faces from my dreams.
but to know me you should know them too.
even if they are cheap you know,
they are worth something.
a few years ago i dreamt up an old-time boxing ring,
my face with blonde hair and the announcer’s mic
and a boldness i don’t ever remember having.
i remember getting punched in the neck.
i remember waking up with my neck twisted and stuck,
then it was the dream about the whale
trapped under an iceberg,
and the dislocated shoulder.
then it was the dream about the man
from the inferno eating his children’s hands,
mouthing the italian for mouth big and over and over again.
and the carpal tunnel at the center of my palms.
then it was the bavarian village
getting stung at the backs by mutant bees.
and the sciatica.
the old man pulling his spine out
to become a cane.
and the stuck back.
people say this is unusual,
that maybe i shouldn’t be hurting
myself in dreams,
that careful someday
you’ll dream up a guillotine.
i say maybe this isn’t so unusual,
that maybe i can hold it,
that this is what fiction has always done:
made absurdity out of hurt
and spun it back round to face itself.
it’s why in louis sachar’s holes
the main characters invent peaches and god
after several days of starvation.
and maybe all those dreams about the apocalypse
were just telling me my depression would flare up.
and maybe my body loves me deep down
enough to give me a little warning
waking up’s going to hurt a little more
than usual today.
like someone taking a knife to your heart
for their breakfast.
and maybe after we break up
i’ll dream about juicing pink lady apples
and drinking them down.
there is a sweet spot in the darkness
where pain takes its own screenshot
and makes a short film
to tell a beautiful tall story
about the time it was born.
and it might be a cheap dream
but it is yours.
12/01/14 @ 05:19am
■ cool shirt
11/01/14 @ 06:03pm