Starting a new book while starting a new movie #moana #postcolonialism #academic #disney
EXPECTATIONS

if i look back, i am lost
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Starting a new book while starting a new movie #moana #postcolonialism #academic #disney
Anais Duplan, you had me at "All those years hiding my balloons..."
Goodtime Jesus by James Tate
holy holy holy holy
Lyric.
A decision is made.
ODE (by Frank O'Hara)
An idea of justice may be precious, one vital gregarious amusement... What are you amused by? a crisis like a cow being put on the payroll with the concomitant investigations and divinings? Have you swept the dung from the tracks? Am I a door? If millions criticize you for drinking too much, the cow is going to look like Venus and you'll make a pass yes, you and your friend from High School, the basketball player whose black eyes exceed yours as he picks up the ball with one hands. But does he doubt, too? To be equal? it's the worst! Are we just muddy instants? No, you must treat me like a fox; or, being a child, kill the oriole though it reminds you of me. Thus you become the author of all being. Women unite against you. It's as if I were carrying a horse on my shoulders and I couldn't see his face. His iron legs hang down to the earth on either side of me like the arch of triumph in Washington Square. I would like to beat someone with him but I can't get him off my shoulders, he's like evening. Evening! your breeze is an obstacle, it changes me, I am being arrested, and if i mock you into a face and, disgusted, throw down the horse--ah! there's his face! and I am, sobbing, walking on my heart. I want to take your hands off my hips and put them on a statue's hips; then I can thoughtfully regard the justice of your feelings for me, and, changing, regard my own love for you as beautiful. I'd never cheat you and say "It's inevitable!" It's just barely natural. But we do course together like two battleships maneuvering away from the fleet. I am moved by the multitudes of your intelligence and sometimes, returning, i become the sea--- in love with your speed, your heaviness and breath.
(see the original here)
The Myth of Innocence (Louise Glück)
One summer she goes into the field as usual
stopping for a bit at the pool where she often
looks at herself, to see
if she detects any changes. She sees
the same person, the horrible mantle
of daughterliness still clinging to her.
The sun seems, in the water, very close.
That's my uncle spying again, she thinks—
everything in nature is in some way her relative.
I am never alone, she thinks,
turning the thought into a prayer.
Then death appears, like the answer to a prayer.
No one understands anymore
how beautiful he was. But Persephone remembers.
Also that he embraced her, right there,
with her uncle watching. She remembers
sunlight flashing on his bare arms.
This is the last moment she remembers clearly.
Then the dark god bore her away.
She also remembers, less clearly,
the chilling insight that from this moment
she couldn't live without him again.
The girl who disappears from the pool
will never return. A woman will return,
looking for the girl she was.
She stands by the pool saying, from time to time,
I was abducted, but it sounds
wrong to her, nothing like what she felt.
Then she says, I was not abducted.
Then she says, I offered myself, I wanted
to escape my body. Even, sometimes,
I willed this. But ignorance
cannot will knowledge. Ignorance
wills something imagined, which it believes exists.
All the different nouns—
she says them in rotation.
Death, husband, god, stranger.
Everything sounds so simple, so conventional.
I must have been, she thinks, a simple girl.
She can't remember herself as that person
but she keeps thinking the pool will remember
and explain to her the meaning of her prayer
so she can understand
whether it was answered or not.
To see nothing anywhere but what you may reach it and pass it, To conceive no time, however distant, but what you may reach it and pass it, To look up or down no road but it stretches and waits for you—however long, but it stretches and waits for you; To see no being, not God’s or any, but you also go thither, To see no possession but you may possess it To know the universe itself as a road—as many roads—as roads for traveling souls.
Song of the Open Road (Walt Whitman)
ALTHOUGH Bertha Young was thirty she still had moments like this when she wanted to run instead of walk, to take dancing steps on and off the pavement, to bowl a hoop, to throw something up in the air and catch it again, or to stand still and laugh at–nothing–at nothing, simply. What can you do if you are thirty and, turning the corner of your own street, you are overcome, suddenly by a feeling of bliss–absolute bliss!–as though you'd suddenly swallowed a bright piece of that late afternoon sun and it burned in your bosom, sending out a little shower of sparks into every particle, into every finger and toe? . . .
Bliss
by Katherine Mansfield
Fiction and poetry don't demand the truth of you, though they may allow it.
A newspaper blackout by mayannee:
“Leave open the possibility of us.”
Horse
What does the horse give you That I cannot give you? I watch you when you are alone, When you ride into the field behind the dairy, Your hands buried in the mare's Dark mane. Then I know what lies behind your silence: Scorn, hatred of me, of marriage. Still, You want me to touch you; you cry out As brides cry, but when I look at you I see There are no children in your body. Then what is there? Nothing, I think. Only haste To die before I die. In a dream, I watched you ride the horse Over the dry fields and then Dismount: you two walked together; In the dark, you had no shadows. But I felt them coming toward me Since at night they go anywhere, They are their own masters. Look at me. You think I don't understand? What is the animal If not passage out of this life?
by Louise Glück
The more distant the memory from the now, the more it is smoothed, abstracted, perfected by that cavernous gap. The particles that fill that gap are akin to the dust of other death things and the dew of new promise whirling together, making a fog through which hates seem more justified and loves seem more lovely.
I remember one friend because through her I define "red-head." I remember another as the epitome of potential gone to pot. I look down at where I'm walking to remember I'm walking, and I remember you to recall my own belief that happiness without compromise is itself compromise.
For each person, there is another who, when remembered, acts as an echo of soundwaves that can push a person back out of the gutter or off of the sidewalk.
For one person, the person the write to indirectly in every post here--you--you are more perfect as a memory as you ever could have been or will be as a person. You are superhuman, inhuman, an animal, and impossibility, a horse with wings, a stallion, a gelding, a mare, a filly, a cold nose in the back nudging me forward and the back that I myself sometimes nudge, a duo sung at different moments in time but heard all at once together, an afterimage for something never once seen, an inception, a myth, a language I can only speak when speaking with you.
The person without an enemy has only friends. A person without a friend was never a person after all.
Sundown
(St. Laurent Sur Mer, June 5, 2009) Sometimes the day light winces behind you and it is a great treasure in this case today a man on a horse in calm full gallop on Omaha over my left shoulder coming on fast but calm not audible to me at all until I turned back my head for no reason as if what lies behind one had whispered what can I do for you today and I had just turned to answer and the answer to my answer flooded from the front with the late sun he/they were driving into—gleaming— wet chest and upraised knees and light-struck hooves and thrust-out even breathing of the great beast—from just behind me, passing me—the rider looking straight ahead and yet smiling without looking at me as I smiled as we both smiled for the young animal, my feet in the breaking wave-edge, his hooves returning, as they begin to pass by, to the edge of the furling break, each tossed-up flake of ocean offered into the reddish luminosity—sparks—as they made their way, boring through to clear out life, a place where no one again is suddenly killed—regardless of the "cause"—no one—just this galloping forward with force through the low waves, seagulls scattering all round, their screeching and mewing rising like more bits of red foam, the horse's hooves now suddenly louder as it goes by and its prints on wet sand deep and immediately filled by thousands of sandfleas thrilled to the declivities in succession in the newly released beach—just at the right moment for some microscopic life to rise up through these cups in the hard upslant retreating ocean is revealing, sandfleas finding them just as light does, carving them out with shadow, and glow on each ridge, and water oozing up through the innermost cut of the hoofsteps, and when I shut my eyes now I am not like a blind person walking towards the lowering sun, the water loud at my right, but like a seeing person with her eyes shut putting her feet down one at a time on the earth.
(Poem by Jorie Graham)