Jacques Léonard
Somorrostro
Barcelona 1960

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@theselittleinklings
Jacques Léonard
Somorrostro
Barcelona 1960
Myron Wood (1921-1999): Mobile by Alexander CalderÂ
Georgia O'Keeffeâs house in Abiquiu, New Mexico, 1980 (via)
Evening
by Jeremy Radin
Another word I love is evening for the balance it implies, balance being something I struggle with. I suppose I would like to be more a planet, turning in & out of light It comes down again to polarities, equilibrium. Evening. The moths take the place of the butterflies, owls the place of hawks, coyotes for dogs, stillness for business, & the great sorrow of brightness makes way for its own sorrow. Everything dances with its strict negation, & I like that. I have no choice but to like that. Systems are evening out all around usâ even now, as we kneel before a new & ruthless circumstance. Where would I like to be in five years, someone asksâ& what can I tell them? Surrendering with grace to the evening, with as much grace as I can muster to the circumstance of darkness, which is only something else that does not stay.
Iâm here to learn a lesson. I spent my other lives in the Nevada desert, where I only did what felt good. What could that mean? I reconcile the pleasure in lying naked on the hot sand of the Mojave, watching the braided muscles in a horseâs hind legs with the ocean nowhere, a frying chest on the hood of an idle car. So comes a lesson, Iâm here to cut the scorpion from my throat. Even though it has dragged me through sweet darkness and time. Even now, in the stillness of home, in love and full of wine, it wraps its eight legs around me. Even through the lilies, it sets its many eyes on me and, suddenly, longing
â Rio Cortez, from "North Node," Golden Ax
âOnce, I saw a bee drown in honey, and I understoodâ
â Â Nikos Kazantzakis,â Report to Grecoâ
Let the sun lick at your skin Remembering the taste of your salt Resurrecting pigment. Let the wind bend your dogwood body Remembering the smell of your hair Stealing your breath as it leaves you Let the grass spring up around you Remembering the shape of your limbs Tingeing your skin with greens Let Spring remember how much it missed your brave body and how splendid you look in its colors. Let it remember how best to bring out the bloom in you
Letâs raise our glasses to the goals weâll never reach and the awkward fumbled voicemails and the unpaid parking tickets and the jeans we no longer fit into. Letâs toast to all the ways we get to show up and bungle the script and spill coffee down our fronts to the wrong music. Letâs be grateful for all the chances life gives us to fuck up. All the days in which we are given fresh air to breathe or smell or pour pollutants into. Life gives us a lot of opportunity to be grand, to be luminescent, to pout at the birthday party, wondering when our mom is gonna pick us up.Â
Weâre not gonna make it out alive so just count your blessings and try to earn some style points as you blunder beautifully through this interstellar fire sale of a life.Â
I do not know the color of the sky under which you were born but I am glad you were pulled from the deep velvet of your mother to gasp life into the smooth seashell of your body I am glad that you were born with love blushing your cheeks with generations of held-up hands steadying you as you learned to walk Your mother, perhaps a rushing meteor Your father, perhaps a sleepy planet the stars of your sisters forming in your same nebula Your body has been stained by the penumbra of your upbringing Whatever the astronomy of your genesis I am grateful for the gravity that pulled you to my world You, with your eyes like eulogies to lost cities You, with your speech patterns like constellations Lines of language followed by little celestial pauses You have grown into your boots, your hands, your apprehensions You have tasted new beginnings, explored coastlines, laugh lines, and love lines You have suffered hardship and know what it is to use the soft parts of your hands to turn over rough stones and new leaves I am so proud of all that you have held onto and all you have let go I am glad for the siblings who have felt your radiant heartbeat alongside theirs in times of tragedy and celebration because I have seen them lean on your rampart shoulders and breathe easier I still marvel at the many husks you have outgrown cracked open and climbed out of After years of evolution, of triumphs, of shipwrecks, of combustion, you are still magnificent in your becoming
Winter Solstice
When the world ends look for me beneath the blackened troposphere. Scour the barren landscape, reach for me in the dark. Catch my smoky gaze through the vapor and with lips chapped from the cold we will kiss with mouths full of ash exhale smoke and memory of firestorm. Meet me on the solstice of this nuclear winter and press your incendiary heart to mine.Â
Come find me when there are no more suns to set. I am not afraid of the dark.
I am sorry. I promise.
I am sorry that everything in your world is stained with my skin color I am sorry for all the ways my race has left its teethmarks on your skin I am sorry for the cruelty of my ancestors I am sorry for the way my history white-washed over yours I am sorry for the ways we have and continue to subjugate your people I am sorry for the myths we intricately fabricated and revised over time about your inferiority I am sorry for the lies we have told you, the lies we keep telling you, the lies we hide behind I am sorry for the ways we have stolen from you, silenced you, denigrated you, and murdered you. And denied it I am sorry that we found ways to set fire to everything you built without us I am sorry we have stolen your children and hunted your parents I am sorry we have created, ignored, and benefited from a system built on the backs of your labor I am sorry we wrongly ascribe your skills, your determination, and your hard work to your ânatural talentâ I am sorry we have built a multi-billion dollar industry on policing and imprisoning your bodies I am sorry that we have poured years into denying you reparations, opportunities, access, and personhood I am sorry we have belittled your strength, your grace, your eloquence, and your beauty I am sorry for how we have found value in your ethnology and ignored the worth in your narratives I am sorry for the times we have fetishized your culture without crediting your people I am sorry we have put our names on and taken credit for your hard work I am sorry for the ways we have promoted our own over you I am sorry for the ways we have plundered, looted, sabotaged, and violated you I am sorry for the ways we have underestimated your intelligence I am sorry for the ways we have shut you out of board rooms I am sorry for the ways we have ignored you in hospitals I am sorry we have tried to keep you from your right to vote I am sorry we have redlined you into specific neighborhoods and school districts I am sorry for any ways in which we tricked you into doubting yourselves or your brethren I am sorry for the ways we told you to be calmer, quieter, smarter, whiter I am sorry for the ways we continue to hold your heads under the water while we take in air in long, greedy gulps I am sorry for the half-assed, duplicitous ways we pretend to make amends I am sorry for the fable we have concocted and named âpost-racial Americaâ I am sorry we have turned up the white noise every time you have tried to speak up for yourselves I am sorry for the ways we have villainized every protest youâve tried to perform I am sorry for our criminal lack of empathy I am sorry for the ways we continue to take advantage of your extraordinary greatness I am sorry
I am sorry for the times my body still does not make enough room for yours I am sorry for the times my voice still speaks over yours I am sorry for the times I have not listened closely enough when you have spoken I am sorry for the ways I continue to benefit from a system in which I play an active part I am sorry for the times I have been blind to inequalities I am sorry for the times I have spoken on your behalf I am sorry for the ways I have let stereotypes speak for you I am sorry for the ways my whiteness has altered my interpretation of reality I am sorry for the times I have crossed the street in fear I am sorry for the times I have appropriated your culture I am sorry for the ways I have tried to demonstrate authentic allyship and failed I am sorry for the ways I have failed to understand your perspective I am sorry for the times I have tried to save you I am sorry for the uninformed ways I try to act on your behalf I am sorry for the times I get in wrong and insult you I am sorry for the ways I will continue to fail you I am sorry
I promise I will re-learn histories I promise I will elevate your voices I promise I will intervene when I encounter racism I promise I will not assume I know better I promise I will stand with you in the streets I promise I will vote in your interests I promise I will not reprimand you when you burn our city to be heard I promise I will include you in my decisions I promise I will promote you in my workplace I promise I will confront my friends and family, even when itâs hard I promise I will patronize your businesses I promise I will respect your art, your music, your words, and your bodies I promise I will fight for your justice I promise I will listen when you speak I promise I will speak up for and not over you I promise I will not expect you to teach me anything I promise I will offer to compensate you when you do I promise I will not euphamize the ways in which you suffer I promise I will understand that I benefit from white supremacy and systemic racism even if I were never to contribute to it consciously I promise I will not take over your narrative or grandstand on your behalf I promise I will not try to weasel out of accusations of racist action I promise I will focus on what you say and not the way you are saying it I promise I will try to make art that addresses racism without contributing to it I promise I will demonstrate anti-racism and confront non-racism I promise I will not look away from the responsibility that comes with my white identity I promise I will use my voice to amplify yours I promise I will take seriously the lifetimes of work yet to do, and commit to a movement, rather than a moment I promise I will not prioritize my own comfort over your revolution I promise I will try not to use my anxiety over saying the wrong thing become an excuse for me to stay silent or not contribute to the conversation I promise I will remind myself that my impact means more than my intent I promise I will work to dismantle the system that lifts me up while it holds you back I promise I will continue to apologize when I fail you and embrace the opportunity to be better I promise
Memorial Day Sailing
When the Wax Melts
Why does no one ever tell you about the injuries you incur when you hurt someone? Why did my mother not warn me of the bruises that would spread like watercolor for every word escaping my lips that made you flinch? Why did my teachers not point to where the skin would raise and scar, darker and more pinched for every time I said I was sorry? Why did my doctors not show me X-rays of the infection spreading in my body like a wildfire with your name? Surely every person who has let someone they love go isn't porcelain and marble. Surely some of us are huddled together licking our deserved wounds or soaking silently together in therapy pools, wax over our eyes and mouths; waiting for our bodies to heal. There is so much the body does to absorb loss for you. There is so much ache your body will hold for you while you try to make yourself Okay Again. Last night I could feel my eyelids trying to will themselves closed, but I couldnât stop listening to your voice. But today my body is struggling. I can feel someone trying to develop film in my empty stomach. This morning on the elliptical, fish hooks in my lungs clinked like chain mail, telling me I was running nowhere too quickly and without fuel, but I didnât listen. When you told me you would never talk to me again, hives started breaking out on my shoulder. When I saw how quickly youâd unfriended me on Facebook, a narrow cut opened behind my ear. When you started packing up my things at four in the morning, a burn formed across my hips; it was shaped like compunction. When you told me not to touch you, an amaranthine archipelago of bruises rose from the fault-lined sea of my thigh. I will never be able to make you feel Okay about my misgivings, or how the conversation about them played out. But perhaps there is catharsis in knowing that I am mourning your loss with palpable grief. I can taste your absence in my vitamins and in the toothpaste I almost threw up in the sink. I feel your jaw clenching under my teeth. I feel your disconsolate silence sweeping across my plains like winds. I have heard reports of your resentment and anger colonizing my indigenous good intentions. What is the matter with me? Why couldnât I love you like you loved me? Why couldnât I be more patient? Why, when I looked through my pockets, my wallet, my aortas, could I only offer you sand from an hourglass whose last grains had already settled? Why is it that I cannot get over the distance I feel between us during the day, when at night you open up like a post-storm sky, worshiping at my feet? Why could I not match your light, your warmth? Why do I feel the soft hillsides of your body with such tenderness; why do I cryogenically cling to stopped time when you hold my gaze or put your hands on my face, but feel a taciturn disquiet when I think of our future? None of these things is your concern. The ink from these pages will not stain your fingers. My afflictions arenât yours to diagnose or treat. To you, all I am is the thing that broke you. The once-adulated god who has chosen to smite you, despite your faith. I am the fickle thunder in the supercell you were too busy looking at my face to see rolling in behind you. I am the windrower that harvested you from my fields too soon. I am the back-alley bully that has hurt you in a way that tastes like blood on your lip. So what business is it of yours if I cut myself while shattering you? I hate that I have made you feel unworthy and broken, and worse, I am now trying to pick up the shards of you and form them into a mosaic of your figure, so I may watch over your stained glass body. But even though this is an artwork of love, it still feels somehow condescending and belittling. I am sorry for that. I am sorry for so may things. I am not sorry to sit here and press into my contusions and remember how it feels to hurt someone who trusted you. When the wax melts, you will have forgotten my name.
These are the Days
These are the days your body remembers. These are the days that gently crease laughter around your eyes like clay. The air here is sharp and curious and your fingertips are glazed with fervor. This here, this place down low is where laughter comes up strong and unabashed. These rocks are where the searching stops and the gratitude rolls in like thunder. This is where you go to lose yourself in comfort, in humble grandeur, in family. These are the people whose hands you reach for and this is the place you come to pray. These are the stars from which you build your rooftops and this is the land for which your body aches. These are the places you fight for and these are the landscapes that fight over your heart. This is the horizon you are chasing and now is the time to feel the love beat through your arteries as you run. These are the winds that push you into motion and elation. On days like these excitement beads off your brow like sweat and the world is falling in love with the salt on your skin. Go get after that love. Get to work under this satellite-torn sky. Go worship at the feet of adventures, large or small; for there are only so many days for our bodies to remember.
Some beautiful colors in Berbera, Somaliland.
Schoolboy, with a smile about to pour out of his mouth.Â
A Trespasserâs Lament
Your body is a sun-soaked, slow moving continent I find myself clinging to as the planet spins. I want to crawl onto your shores and sink my hands into the earth of you. If I were of a crueler heart I would stake a flag in you and claim you for my own, but I wonât. I am no conquistador and, after all, you belong to something bigger than myself so I will kneel against your firm skin and marvel that you allow me space alongside your body at all. Your borders are already stained with someone elseâs ink. Your soil shows fertile signs of potential life; well-tended fields, damp dirt, striking greens. Her face is carved into your canyons and I avoid her gaze. You are flying her flags while I kiss the walls of your sheltering caves. I have stumbled here quite by accident but canât seem to stop getting lost in the forests of you. I have fallen in love with the way the stars look from your clifftops and the swift current of your body makes my legs shake with excitement. I never meant to trespass here and as much as I want to leave, I stay, weeping into your clay, your foliage, your estuaries, your canopies, your loam because the world over is being conquered, claimed, explored, inhabited and I am running out of wilderness to stumble blindly into and praise like religion. All I want is a place to call home and lately I have been a shipwrecked orphan cast onto foreign shores that cast my body back into the sea. And what a shame; your landscape felt beautiful against mine, like genesis, like inception, like cohesion.