into: art, cats, coffee, education, feminism, intelligent/attractive men, literature, music, politics, science, television, travel, wit
occasionally, I try to write.
ג ז י
She looked over his shoulder For vines and olive trees, Marble well-governed cities And ships upon untamed seas, But there on the shining metal His hands had put instead An artificial wilderness And a sky like lead. A plain without a feature, bare and brown, No blade of grass, no sign of neighborhood, Nothing to eat and nowhere to sit down, Yet, congregated on its blankness, stood An unintelligible multitude, A million eyes, a million boots in line, Without expression, waiting for a sign. Out of the air a voice without a face Proved by statistics that some cause was just In tones as dry and level as the place: No one was cheered and nothing was discussed; Column by column in a cloud of dust They marched away enduring a belief Whose logic brought them, somewhere else, to grief. She looked over his shoulder For ritual pieties, White flower-garlanded heifers, Libation and sacrifice, But there on the shining metal Where the altar should have been, She saw by his flickering forge-light Quite another scene. Barbed wire enclosed an arbitrary spot Where bored officials lounged (one cracked a joke) And sentries sweated for the day was hot: A crowd of ordinary decent folk Watched from without and neither moved nor spoke As three pale figures were led forth and bound To three posts driven upright in the ground. The mass and majesty of this world, all That carries weight and always weighs the same Lay in the hands of others; they were small And could not hope for help and no help came: What their foes like to do was done, their shame Was all the worst could wish; they lost their pride And died as men before their bodies died. She looked over his shoulder For athletes at their games, Men and women in a dance Moving their sweet limbs Quick, quick, to music, But there on the shining shield His hands had set no dancing-floor But a weed-choked field. A ragged urchin, aimless and alone, Loitered about that vacancy; a bird Flew up to safety from his well-aimed stone: That girls are raped, that two boys knife a third, Were axioms to him, who'd never heard Of any world where promises were kept, Or one could weep because another wept. The thin-lipped armorer, Hephaestos, hobbled away, Thetis of the shining breasts Cried out in dismay At what the god had wrought To please her son, the strong Iron-hearted man-slaying Achilles Who would not live long.
- W. H. Auden
My English 45C professor ended our class with this poem, as well as some really beautiful thoughts on the role of art in the world. It was one of the best snippets of a lecture I’ve ever heard. I’m so fortunate to be studying such a beautiful subject in such a wonderful place with such intelligent, lovely people.
“I could share her when she was alive. When she was alive, her presence was endless, time with her was endless, time was endless. Our mother was very old already, and when we children stopped to think about how long we might live, we thought we would live to be just as old. Then, suddenly, there was that strange problem with her vision, which turned out to be a problem not with her vision but in her brain, and then, without warning, the bleeding and the coma, and the doctors announcing that she did not have long to live.
“Once she was gone, every memory was suddenly precious, even the bad ones, even the times I was irritated with her, or she was irritated with me. Then it seemed a luxury to be irritated.”
Margaret Cho (via onehundreddollars)
currently seriously conflicted over whether or not to get a tattoo over winter break…on the one hand, I really really really want it and know I won’t regret it, on the other hand, I’ve talked about it with my folks, and they were the opposite of accepting/supportive of the idea…on the third hand, I’d be doing it by myself (ie using money I earned myself), on the fourth hand, I really care about my parents’ opinions and don’t want to upset them, on the fifth hand this quote basically
Feminist Cocktails by Imogen Sadler.
This is from WomCam! They had these at freshers’ drinks, such a top idea!
actually the most perfect thing
I don’t even know anymore.
What that even mean, though?
If you only live once,
Why we keep doing the same shit?
Back where I come from we keep being born again,
And again and again and again.
new life anthem
"I tend to be cynical about a lot of things, but Maya Angelou is somebody that no matter how much I pick her apart, she still has integrity. She was a victim of incest and rape, and she worked as a stripper. And now she’s a literary icon and Nobel Laureate. It goes to show that life is cumulative, and you can’t devalue any type of experience."