Just A Ghost @lum3ni - Tumblr Blog

blue-nebraska

gothicprep

no offense but I’ve never gotten over anything that’s happened to me in my life

kafk-a

my heart is the shape of a wobbly handmade ceramic bowl

librarycard

who will be bert and ernie with me though. WHO will be frog and toad

plain-flavoured-english

Your purpose in life is not to love yourself but to love being yourself.

If you goal is to love yourself, then your focus is directed inward toward yourself, and you end up constantly watching yourself from the outside, disconnected, trying to summon the “correct” feelings towards yourself or fashion yourself into something you can approve of.

If your goal is to love being yourself, then your focus is directed outward towards life, on living and making decisions based on what brings you pleasure and fulfillment.

Be the subject, not the object. It doesn’t matter what you think of yourself. You are experiencing life. Life is not experiencing you.

Snippets of August

tomatodust

“déraciné-e (uprooted)”, 2016

aidashakur

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this is so romantic to me

strictlygenteel

Built in the 18th century, this is one of the oldest buildings in Hattfjelldal municipality in Norland, Norway. (Photo: Elin Kristina Jåma)

hideback

Cicada, Stages of Conventionalization

Hugo Froelich, Keramic Studio Magazine, 1905

soulist-aurora

MOOD

juliannabrion

pencils and brushes

budgiesmuggled-deactivated20210

Shinjuku Boys (1995). Tatsu, a transgender man, jokes with his barber about his changing appearance, and his newly masculine features.

TRANSCRIPT:

BARBER: So you go regularly to the hospital for your hormone injection? TATSU: [nods] BARBER: Does it hurt? TATSU: Not at all. BARBER: You have more facial hair. It must be the hormones. You’ll get a moustache soon. TATSU: I’ll look distinguished! They’ve made quite the difference. I never thought I’d change so much. Most customers say I’m like a man. BARBER: Really? TATSU: [laughing] They say, “You look like a man. You’re not cute.” BARBER: [laughs]

END TRANSCRIPT.

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In the first poetry workshop I ever took my professor said we could write about anything we wanted except for two things: our grandparents and our dogs. She said she had never read a good poem about a dog. I could only remember ever reading one poem about a dog before that point—a poem by Pablo Neruda, from which I only remembered the lines “We walked together on the shores of the sea/ In the lonely winter of Isla Negra.” Four years later I wrote a poem about how when I was a little girl I secretly baptized my dog in the bathtub because I was afraid she wouldn’t get into heaven. “Is this a good poem?” I wondered. The second poetry workshop, our professor made us put a bird in each one of our poems. I thought this was unbelievably stupid. This professor also hated when we wrote about hearts, she said no poet had ever written a good poem in which they mentioned a heart. I started collecting poems about hearts, first to spite her, but then because it became a habit I couldn’t break. The workshop after that, our professor would tell us the same story over and over about how his son had died during a blizzard. He would cry in front of us. He never told us we couldn’t write about anything, but I wrote a lot of poems about snow. At the end of the year he called me into his office and said, “looking at you, one wouldn’t think you’d be a very good writer” and I could feel all the pity inside of me curdling like milk. The fourth poetry workshop I ever took my professor made it clear that poets should not try to engage with popular culture. I noticed that the only poets he assigned were men. I wrote a poem about that scene in Grease 2 where a boy takes his girlfriend to a fallout shelter and tries to get her to have sex with him by tricking her into believing that nuclear war had begun. It was the first poem I ever published. The fifth poetry workshop I ever took our professor railed against the word blood. She thought that no poem should ever have the word “blood” in it, they were bloody enough already. She returned a draft of my poem with the word blood crossed out so hard the paper had torn. When I started teaching poetry workshops I promised myself I would never give my students any rules about what could or couldn’t be in their poems. They all wrote about basketball. I used to tally these poems when I’d go through the stack I had collected at the end of each class. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 poems about basketball. This was Indiana. Eventually I couldn’t take it anymore. I told the class, “for the next assignment no one can write about basketball, please for the love of god choose another topic. Challenge yourselves.” Next time I collected their poems there was one student who had turned in another poem about basketball. I don’t know if he had been absent on the day I told them to choose another topic or if he had just done it to spite me. It’s the only student poem I can still really remember. At the time I wrote down the last lines of that poem in a notebook. “He threw the basketball and it came towards me like the sun”