The weight of my unknown ancestors burns in my mind-a rocky burden. I try to remember anything yet only ghosts spill out of my mouth. Where did they go? Whatever happened to them? Are they proud of me? Are they proud of what I've done? What I've done to get here? When they watch they are witness to their own memories crammed into a modern body. I am simply a young girl. Not the fragments of my family. I exist watching every little move for an answer, they are waiting to give me it all, waiting for me to come back home. I am struggling with the door.
-ANCESTRAL CRISIS 12.08.2021
these are forms of media that i frequently associate with december
books
Devotion, Patti Smith
A Spy in the House of Love, Anais Nin
After Dark, Haruki Murakami
The Woman in the Dunes, Kōbō Abe
Sleepless Nights, Elizabeth Hardwick
Untold Night and Day, Bae Suah
Paradais, Fernanda Melchor
articles/essays
Everything Visible Is Empty: Toshio Matsumoto, Stuart Monro-Mousse Magazine
As a city, Hong Kong confounds. The sheer aggressiveness, people jostling for trains or shouting from afar, somehow feels more intimate than unsettling.
A Mexican Novel Conjures a Violent World Tinged With Beauty, Julian Lucas-NYT
(on Hurricane Season by Fernanda Melchor)
Our Doppelgängers, Ourselves, Alan Glynn-Lit Hub
Cannibal Manifesto, Oswald De Andrade
Strange Fruit: the first great protest song, Dorian Lynskey-The Guardian
poetry
The Denial of Death, Louise Glück
Funeral Blues, W.H Auden
A Quiet Poem, Frank O'Hara
Giving Up Smoking, Wendy Cope
I Walked Past a House Where I Lived Once, Yehuda Amichai
Last Curtain, Rabindranath Tagore
Perhaps the World Ends Here, Joy Harjo
Tahini Al-Jamil saying ‘I had never felt quite so seen as when she saw me’ sounds like something straight out of a dark academia novel, where the protagonist is describing their ‘friend’ who they’re definitely NOT in love with
New drinking game: take a shot whenever Henry bites his lip in TSH
Tonight the moon is full. Through the window the moon covers my bed and turns everything a milky bluish white. So I escape by closing my eyes. Because the full moon is light insomnia: numb and drowsy like after love.
Clarice Lispector, from "Água Viva" (tr. by Stefan Tobler)
was at the minster + saw a class of school children laying on the floor looking at all the architecture 💌
a beautifully constructed poem on death and grief
please let me live in this forever and ever
flan with friends 🍮 print available here !
Religious cults in ancient societies
Poison and why it’s so prominent in mystery novels
Methods of forensic investigations throughout the years
Influence of fashion based on past media
The transition to the Renaissance and renaissance philosophy
The pioneers of Pop Art
Artists in times of war
Music and political propaganda
Symbolism in surrealistic art
The Trail of Tears
Dead branches of evolution
Art Fraud
Barbie doll fashion
Southern Asian Empires
Advance of science and maths in Islamic kingdoms
Dark academia and its subtle racism and elitism/classisms
What defines as ‘alien’ in different cultures
Opium War
Modernism in South America
Egyptian revolution
White washing in media
Racial identity in the Caribbean
History of puppetry in Chinese drama
Problems revolving organized crimes
Cuban missile crisis and the Cold War
any true crime case that fascinates you
Your views on immortality
Feral children and the impact of isolation
Themes of self discovery in Albert Camus ‘The Stranger’
Early concepts of feminism in literature and then later on music
Add some of your own in the comments :)
comprehensive thread of petitions + donation links in the replies + gofundme directly from george floyd’s family