Latest Posts by dreams-and-nightmares - Page 5

i had to cut a knot out of my cat’s fur. for the first time in his life, in the ten years i have known him, he put his teeth on my hand, gently, a warning, telling me i was hurting him but unwilling to let that message sink in. 

i wonder how many people i have hurt worse than my cat hurt me. how many hands were trying to help me that i turned and devoured. i was so angry, so often, bristling with so many tangles that no knife could slit open. people who loved me tried everything and i snarled at them. how hurt i was when they were angry i was acting out of order. i would find out later their anger at my behavior was just because they were scared to death i was going to explode and they’d lose me and it came out looking angry.

i wish i could be like my cat. to warn that i was in pain, gently. to only lash out with the littlest of teeth. to know that sometimes what looks like an attack is actually a sign of love. but i only know claws, and using the fullest force of my venom to hurt others when they never meant to hurt me. i know logically sometimes there’s pain to pull the glass out. but i can’t stop myself from reacting.

"Yes, Think" – Ruth Stone

Mother, said a small tomato caterpillar to a wasp, why are you kissing me so hard on my back? You’ll see, said the industrious wasp, deftly inserting a package of her eggs under the small caterpillar’s skin. Every day the small caterpillar ate and ate the delicious tomato leaves. I am surely getting larger, it said to itself. This was a sad miscalculation. The ravenous hatched wasp worms were getting larger. O world, the small caterpillar said, you were so beautiful. I am only a small tomato caterpillar, made to eat the good tomato leaves. Now I am so tired. And I am getting even smaller. Nature smiled. Never mind, dear, she said. You are a lovely link in the great chain of being. Think how lucky it is to be born.

What the Dragon Said: a Love Story

by Catherynne M. Valente

So this guy walks into a dragon’s lair      and he says why the long tale?                  HAR HAR BUDDY says the dragon                  FUCK YOU. The dragon’s a classic the ‘57 Chevy of existential chthonic threats take in those Christmas colors, those impervious green scales, sticky candy-red firebreath, comes standard with a heap of rubylust goldhuddled treasure.                  Go ahead.                  Kick the tires, boy.                  See how she rides. Sit down, kid, says the dragon. Diamonds roll off her back like dandruff. Oh, you’d rather be called a paladin? I’d rather be a unicorn.                  Always thought that was the better gig. Everyone thinks you’re innocent. Everyone calls you pure. And the girls aren’t afraid they come right up with their little hands out for you to sniff like you’re a puppy and they’re gonna take you home. They let you put your head right in their laps.                  But nobody on this earth ever got what they wanted. Now I know what you came for. You want my body. To hang it up on a nail over your fireplace. Say to some milk-and-rosewater chica who lays her head in your lap look how much it takes to make me feel like a man.                  We’re in the dark now, you and me. This is primal shit right here. Grendel, Smaug, St. George. You’ve been called up. This is the big game. You don’t have to make stupid puns. Flash your feathers like your monkey bravado can impress. I saw a T-Rex fight a comet and lose. You’ve got nothing I want. Here’s something I bet you don’t know:      every time someone writes a story about a dragon a real dragon dies.                  Something about seeing and being seen                  something about mirrors that old tune about how a photograph can take your whole soul. At the end of this poem                  I’m going to go out like electricity in an ice storm. I’ve made peace with it.                  That last blockbuster took out a whole family                  of Bhutan thunder dragons living in Latvia the fumes of their cleargas hoard hanging on their beards like blue ghosts. A dragon’s gotta get zen                  with ephemerality. You want to cut me up? Chickenscratch my leather with butcher’s chalk: cutlets, tenderloin, ribs for the company barbecue, chuck, chops, brisket, roast.                  I dig it, I do. I want to eat everything, too. When I look at the world      I see a table. All those fancy houses, people with degrees, horses and whales, bankers and Buddha statues the Pope, astronauts, panda bears and yes, paladins                  if you let me swallow you whole                  I’ll call you whatever you want. Look at it all: waitresses and ice caps and submarines down at the bottom of the heavy lightless saltdark of the sea                  Don’t they know they’d be safer                  inside me? I could be big for them      I could hold them all My belly could be a city      where everyone was so loved they wouldn’t need jobs. I could be the hyperreal post-scarcity dragonhearted singularity.      I could eat them      and feed them      and eat them      and feed them. This is why I don’t get to be a unicorn. Those ponies have clotted cream and Chanel No. 5 for blood and they don’t burn up like comets with love that tastes like starving to death.      And you, with your standup comedy knightliness, covering Beowulf’s greatest hits on your tin kazoo, you can’t begin to think through      what it takes to fill up a body like this. It takes everything pretty and everything true      and you stick yourself in a cave because your want is bigger than you. I just want to be the size of a galaxy so I can eat all the stars and gas giants without them noticing and getting upset. Is that so bad?                  Isn’t that what love looks like?                  Isn’t that what you want, too? I’ll make you a deal.      Come close up stand on my emeraldheart, my sapphireself the goldpile of my body      Close enough to smell everything you’ll never be. Don’t finish the poem. Not for nothing is it a snake that eats her tail and means eternity. What’s a few verses worth anyway? Everyone knows poetry doesn’t sell. Don’t you ever feel like you’re just a story someone is telling about someone like you?                  I get that. I get you. You and me we could fit inside each other. It’s not nihilism if there’s really no point to anything. I have a secret down in the deep of my dark. All those other kids who wanted me to call them paladins, warriors, saints, whose swords had names, whose bodies were perfect as moonlight      they’ve set up a township near my liver had babies with the maidens they didn’t save      invented electric lightbulbs      thought up new holidays.                              You can have my body                              just like you wanted. Or you can keep on fighting dragons writing dragons fighting dragons re-staging that same old Cretaceous deathmatch you mammals always win.                  But hey, hush, come on. Quit now. You’ll never fix that line.                  I have a forgiveness in me                  the size of eons                  and if a dragon’s body is big enough                  it just looks like the world.                                                          Did you know the earth used to have two moons?

are there any poems you have on home, if its ok to ask? i feel homesick for a home beyond my reach and thought i could come to you.

“I was in a place where nobody knew my heart even a little bit.”

— Carol Rifka Brunt, Tell the Wolves I’m Home

“it’s as if I had to go back home on foot, alone, barefoot not knowing where far away, everybody else went long ago”

— Hélène Cixous, Hyperdream (tr. Beverly Bie Brahic)

“[ON LOSING LOVE]: This is the model I propose. You are arriving home and as you approach the garage you try to work your routine magic. Nothing happens; the doors remain closed. You do it again. Again nothing. At first puzzled, then anxious, then furious with disbelief, you sit in the driveway with the engine running; you sit there for weeks, months, for years, waiting for the doors to open. But you are in the wrong car, in front of the wrong garage, waiting outside the wrong house. One of the troubles is this: the heart isn't heart shaped.”

— Julian Barnes, A History of the World in 10 and 1/2 Chapters

— James Baldwin, Giovanni’s Room

“‘I’m homesick all the time,’ she said, still not looking at him. ‘I just don’t know where home is. There’s this promise of happiness out there. I know it. I even feel it sometimes. But it’s like chasing the moon - just when I think I have it, it disappears into the horizon. I grieve and try to move on, but then the damn thing comes back the next night, giving me hope of catching it all over again.”

— Sarah Addison Allen, The Girl Who Chased the Moon 

“Wickedness has leaked into the home I made, / and I want to burn it down. Sister, tell me / how you stand the murderous fury. You there / still singing, I crave demolishing, to eat / explosives.”

— Ada Limón, Bright Dead Things; “Home Fires”

“At the core of all sighs is a name, a stone from the body’s last lost home.”

— Karen Solie, from “Days Inn,” Short Haul Engine

“To ask “Where is home?” as if there is one answer. To write home in a poem, like a poem could be a home—is this happy or sad?”

— Chen Chen, from “Craft Capsule: On Becoming a Pop Star, I Mean, a Poet”

“Feeling what we all feel: home is a forgotten recipe, a spice we can find nowhere, a taste we can never reproduce, exactly.”

— Richard Blanco, from “Mexican Almuerzo in New England”

— Ross Gay, from Bringing the Shovel Down; “Because”

“I want to ask was there ever one / moment when all of it relented, / when rain and ocean and their own / sense of home were revealed to them / as one and the same?”

— Eavan Boland, from In a Time of Violence

“I: Why not take the shorter way home. HT: There is no shorter way home.”

— Anne Carson, from Men in the Off Hours; “Interview with Hara Tamiki (1950)”

Me shortly,

plants!

oliver baez bendorf “bone dust” // “you up?” rachelle toarmino // “vocabulary” bao phi // svetlana alexievich “secondhand time”(trans. bela shayevich) // har alluri “ancestral memory” // céline sciamma on portrait of a lady on fire // “the glass essay” anne carson

When Adam bit the apple he did it because he trusted Eve. Because he loved her. Adam bit into the apple because the woman he loved told him to, no matter what God said. No matter the rules of heaven. What’s heaven to a woman’s love anyway? What’s God to your wife? The first sins of humanity, were trusting others. Eve trusted a snake, Adam trusted Eve, and I trust you. Maybe that’s a sin, just like the first couple. Maybe everyone’s right about us and we’re sinners and we offend God. But like I said, what’s God to a woman’s love anyway? What has heaven got that I can’t find sitting next to you on a cool autumn morning?

“I sit here alone, burning,”

— Nikos Kazantzakis, from a letter to Yannis Stavridakis c. December 1917

I put my sadness in a box. The box went soft and wet and weak at the bottom. I called it Thursday. Today is Sunday.

Richard Siken, from “The Field of Rooms and Halls” (via voirlvmer)

When you’re an artist, it’s because there’s something inside you that you can’t keep from spilling out. Maybe it comes in the form of sentences, or a grand jeté, or a stroke of a paintbrush. The end result can be a million different things. But the seed, it’s always the same. It’s the emotion there isn’t a word for. The feeling that’s too big for your body. To show someone your soul, you have to bleed. People who are comfortable—people who are content—they don’t create art.

Jodi Picoult, from The Book of Two Ways (Ballantine, 2020)

another random epiphany i had on my drive home from the store was that things that are the most obvious often feel the most profound. i was looking at the sunset through my window. i was like “this is beautiful and it changes all the time so every sunset is a little different and also beautiful.” which led me to think “if you look at the earth from space, the clouds are never pink or blue or yellow or orange, they are just white and grey all the time. in space perhaps the sunsets are not very different or very beautiful.” which led me to think “the sunsets are only beautiful because i am so small.” which led me to think “so many things are only beautiful because i am so small, or if not only then they are at least much more beautiful than they might otherwise be, either because my vantage point of smallness allows me to see details that big things wouldn’t see, like when i see the flash of the sun at sunset with my little eyes on this big planet, or because my briefness finds vastness so incredible cuz it’s so much bigger than me, like when i sit under a very very old and very very tall tree.” and this was all somewhat obvious but it didn’t make the feeling of epiphany go away or diminish at all

“writers & lovers” is killing me

Anaïs Nin, from “The Diary of Anaïs Nin, 1955–1966”

Nikki Giovanni, from “Adulthood II”

Li Shangyin, from When Will I be Home? (tr. by Kenneth Rexroth)

Sarah Kay, No Matter the Wreckage; “Postcards”

1. bathe by hailaker

2. art by maggie stephenson

3. ocean vuong, night sky with exit wounds

4. art by charlotte ager

5. banana yoshimoto, goodbye tsugumi

Terry Pratchett, Thief of Time

What are some of your favorite poems/pieces of writing?

general disclaimer that im much less well-read as my carefully curated internet persona might lead on... but these are some pieces of writing that make up the mycelium network of my mind’s undergrowth:

tim riggins speaks of waterfalls - nico alvarado

as from a quiver of arrows - carl phillips 

what the dragon said: a love story - c. valente

hunting season - steven chung

yes, think - ruth stone

from blossom - li-young lee

psalm - dorianne laux

sleeping in hte forest - mary oliver

percy wakes me (fourteen) - mary oliver

here there are blueberries - mary szybist

try to praise the mutilated world - adam zagajewski

de profundis - christina rosetti

new bones - lucille clifton

morning love poem - tara skurtu

forfeiting my mystique - kaveh akbar

that kind of good - natalie wee

the mower - philip larkin

valentine - carol ann duffy

happiness from paul schmidtberger’s design flaws of the human condition

we ate the birds - margaret atwood

i want to tell you yes - kallie falandays

ode to buttoning and unbuttoning my shirt - ross gay

not the beloved from anne carson’s erso the bittersweet

after the movie - marie howe

accident report in the tall, tall weeds - ada limón

in tennessee i found a firefly - mary szybist

when i put my hands on your body - david wojnarowicz

the mystery of grocery carts - john olson

your night is of lilac - mahmoud darwish

a dead thing that, in dying, feeds the living - donika kelly

please read - mary ruefle

dudes, we did not go through the hassle of getting these fake ids for this jukebox to not have any springsteen - hanif andurraquib

we lived happily during the war - ilya kaminsky

while the child sleeps - ilya kaminsky

the forgotten dialect of the heart - jack gilbert

what the living do - marie howe

eleven - sandra cisneros

revolutionary letter #4 - diane di prima

elegy for my sadness - chen chen

And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.

Haruki Murakami (via sunsetquotes)

C.P. Cavafy, from The City (tr. by Edmund Keeley & Philip Sherrard)

Could things have gone any other way?

tiny hug

(via)

when lorde said “i knew that teenagers sparkled. i knew they knew something children didn’t know, and adults ended up forgetting. since 13 i’ve spent my life building this giant teenage museum, mausoleum maybe, dutifully wolfishly writing every moment down, and repeating it all back like folklore. and now there isn’t any more of it.”

I have been thinking of the ways we tell people things. My father's hands shake, but he holds the phone up so I can watch the video from six feet away. My mother emails me the recipe of her beef stroganoff at 6 in the morning with the comment - woke up and didn't want to forget to do this! On the highway, we sing so loudly my voice grows hoarse; on the beach I sneak nice rocks into people's hands so they have something to hold; on the floor we all sit quietly in the same agreeable silence. We are all saying the same thing.

My friends say "Oh you know, keeping busy." This means they are having a hard time but making themselves survive it. I ask them to help me walk me dog; this is me telling them it's okay sometimes to just be present and talk about young adult fiction. When I cancel again because I can't get out of bed, she tells me she's on her way with cookies.

I point out the sunset. She shares her fork before I ask for it. He calls me at 1 AM just because I'm on the road alone, we talk about stupid shit. She waits for me to get indoors safely before driving away. He says - nah, forget it, I'm happy to do it for free.

People are saying it, you know? They say it often and loudly. Sometimes, you know - you just have to be listening.

sitting on the bus on a foggy morning and only thinking — is this, finally, my life? do i hold it with both hands? do i try to live?

summer’s almost over so here’s some summer themed drawings~