the wind/door by Jane Barnes
Cosimo Galluzzi

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Sade Olutola
almost home

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Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
h
trying on a metaphor
Peter Solarz
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shark vs the universe

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todays bird
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@literiagan
the wind/door by Jane Barnes
amir khusrow (1253–1325 CE)
This is back on my dash! And listen, I love to see Amir Khusrau getting appreciation, but this translation ignores a lot. The original rhymes! And scans! And does playful things with register! And conveys a tone of affectionate banter between the two speakers, not least because it has them both addressing each other as sakhi (translated above as “girl”) in the last two lines. I think taking some liberties with line order is worth it to preserve more of the rest—and I think there’s a better translation of sakhi. And so:
He only visits once a year, I splurge big on him when he’s here, His kisses make my tastebuds tango. Who, bitch, your man? Nah, bitch, a mango.
Finished stitching my Oversight series.
12 small embroidered poem-objects in wool, linen, cotton, silk, stitched on canvaswork mesh and edged in glass beads.
Jenny Slate, Stage Fright (2019)
Ugly, Bitter, and True by Suzanne Rivecca
John Mulaney on The Late Show with Stephen Colbert (2020)
“Robin Williams and Why Funny People Kill Themselves” by David Wong
letters from Medea, salma deera
“I love the way the player’s body moves in Bloodborne: You can fly in any direction like that, like a nervous little bird. If you want to be close, you are instantly close, and if you want to be away, you are instantly away. What a gift. Of course everything is violent and wants to touch you, but if you are perfect, you will not be touched. There is a little secret here which perhaps you can notice: When the ugly monster’s limbs reach out to touch the small human’s body, there is about a tenth of a second—maybe less— where her body is invincible. It doesn’t even matter if she’s geometrically in harm’s way or not. She is safe because she timed it right, was perfect. See, even in this very hard game, there is something wonderful and fair: The game doesn’t care about the way bodies actually intersect. If your timing was correct, it agrees: “You were not touched.” Many games hide that tiny moment of invincibility within quick movement, and it feels so kind just knowing, no mater how bad you are, that if you could fit every moment of pain in that one tenth of a second you could be invincible for the rest of your life. Sometimes I wish I had this power in real life. If I had it would mean never having to say ‘no’ in so many words, nor the confrontation that sometimes comes with saying no. But that perfect, flawless dodge is not sustainable—you have to be devastated so many times to get the timing so flawless. And here’s my bad secret: when I killed this one monster, I didn’t do it by dodging flawlessly, but by mashing some awful weapon in her side while her limbs were flailing and she could not hit me back. Unfair and problematic of me, I know. So often, games’ expressive qualities are limited to the violent motion of virtual bodies, yet they can be extremely articulate within that vocabulary. As much as I want to be an untouchable angel of forgiveness and grace with a bottomless well of compassion for all living things, I keep messing up that dodge and I think it’s making me a bitch.”
— Aevee Bee, “I love my untouchable virtual body” (via goodbyemisery)
Affirmation to youth living in prison after Assata Shakur
by Eve L. Ewing
Korina Wray
drew over something i wrote for a class and liked :] sorry the cars are lowkey ugly, its because I fucking hate cars and cant be bothered to learn what they look like beyond ominous hunks of metal
edit: transcript of the poem by itself under the cut
In other words, I’m a ‘kitsune miko that lives in a mountain shrine’, and my existence is determined wholly by people believing in this form that I take. I don’t have any individuality or part which is really ‘myself’. Like a myth or a legend, my story and things that happen in my life are all shaped and dreamt up by other people, none of which I actually live through of my own accord. Almost like I’m just a higher level imaginary friend of sorts, existing only in the minds of people who believe… the consciousness that I have right now is not of myself. No, the ‘awareness’ I have is almost like that of a third person observer, living out the figments of imagination of what people believe that ‘a kitsune miko would do in a given situation’, of countless, untold numbers of people… You could say that everything that I even think about, everything that I feel, ‘everything that I could possibly feel was a thought of someone else, and if no one ever thought of it, I could never think of it’, an existence void of self-agency… and even that void of self-agency is something thought up by some ‘author’, somewhere… Please don’t misunderstand, I’m not actually venting my frustrations or in despair about it all. After all, even this feeling I’m feeling right now is what people believe that I would feel given this situation I find myself in. that’s ‘faith’. That’s what gods (particularly those of Japan) are made of. For example, imagine that there was a doujin, or an anime or manga in which a wholly commercial depiction of a ‘kitsune girl’ existed. Imagine that people, in their own individual imaginations, thought of possible situations that this character would or could experience, continuing where the original media left off or left out. I’m that imaginary existence given flesh. The truly scary thing about this all is that when someone forgets or stops caring about my existence, my being loses what they had of me. And when everyone forgets, that will be a true and final death… I don’t want to die. It’s scary. Being forgotten is terrifying. But given my existence to begin with, could you even say that I have ‘lived’ at all? I’m but flesh given of the wavering, transient delusions or fantasies of a ‘kitsune girl’, and I don’t exactly exist ‘in time’, per se. I do not have an existence set in stone, there’s nothing concrete about who I am. I’ve said this before, but I’m simply an illusion, and what I am changes. My character, my appearance, and even the way I am cognizant, the way I think. They’ve always been changing, disappearing, appearing as time passes. What is now vanishes, and what comes also vanishes, and vanishes… and it keeps happening. Is that truly 'living’? Is it really even 'existing’? the me of yesterday is not the me of today, and the me of tomorrow will be different yet again. In order to conceptualize who I even am, because everyone thinks of me in a different way, I do not even have a fixed, baseline 'form’. It’s insane, isn’t it? I think I was always insane to begin with… No; it’s just that I never looked insane to begin with. Because everyone believes that I’m not, believes that I am what I am, and I simply perform my part, like an actor acting… no, being made to act, a puppet. But inside, it’s all broken, there’s nothing but madness underneath. I’m unable to deny this fact. Did I not say before, that even my own existence as observer of myself in the third person is not of my own volition? But you, there, you’re imagining it right now, aren’t you? That it is? How could I possibly stay sane, with an existence like this-
Whitey On The Moon by Gil Scott-Heron
Gil Scott-Heron, a singer, poet, and author, created numerous spoken-word works addressing social, political, and economic issues in the United States. In his 1970 poem “Whitey on the Moon,” he highlights racial and economic inequalities by contrasting the 1969 moon landing with the harsh realities faced by African Americans in cities such as New York, Detroit, and Los Angeles.
The hurting kind by Ada Limón
carta monir
"you can honor your elders without freezing them in resin. you can fuck right now."
PLEASURE by Rick Barot
Someone had to go first
The first ship that arrived was pretty matter of fact about its fate. The pilot introduced himself as Eric, then told us he was part of the first sublight resupply attempt in modern history. He then gave me and the ground control team his bad news.
“So,” he said. “Without real time telemetry, we weren’t even sure which half of your orbit you’d be in. That’s half a solar system’s worth of wiggle room. Decelerating enough to survive contact with your low orbit would take me two weeks, which, you know, it looks like we don’t have. That means that in order to get the second ship in before you lose orbital control to the Kresh, I’m gonna have to make a sacrificial flyby. Ten to the negative four torr is good enough for a lot of things, but at point-seven c it’s gonna be like sandblasting a soup cracker. Good news is that all the expensive toys are in the next ship, so this really ain’t costing you more than a ship and a pilot.”
Daylight Savings by Grace Q. Song