This is for the fat girls, this one's for the little brothers, this is for the schoolyard wimps and for the childhood bullies that tormented them. For the former prom queen and for the milk crate ball players, the night time cereal eaters, and for the retired elderly Walmart store front door greeters, shake the dust. This is for the benches and the people sitting upon them, for the bus drivers driving a million broken hymns, for the men who have to hold down 3 jobs simply to hold up their children, for the night time schoolers, for the midnight bike riders trying to fly... shake the dust. This is for the two year olds who cannot be understood because they speak half english, and half God, shake the dust, for the boys with the beautiful sisters, shake the dust, for the girls with the brothers who are going crazy for those gym class wall flowers, the 12 year olds afraid of taking public showers, for the kid who is always late to class because he forgets the combination to his locker, for the girl who loves somebody else, shake the dust. This is for the hard men who want love but know that it won't come, the ones who are forgotten, the ones the amendments do not stand up for, for the ones who are told to speak only when you are spoken to, and then are never spoken to, speak every time you stand so you don't forget yourself, do not let a moment go by that is a reminder that your heart beats 900 times a day, that there are enough gallons of blood to make you an ocean, do not settle for letting these waves settle, and for the dust to collect in your veins. This is for the celibate pedafile who keeps on struggling, for the poetry teachers, and for the people who go on vacations alone. For the sweat that drips off of Mick jagger's singing lips, and for the shaking skirt on Tina Turner's shaking hips, for the heavens and for the hell's through which Tina has lived, this is for the tired and for the dreamers, for the families that will never be like the Kleaver's, with perfectly made dinners, and sons like Wally and the beaver, this is for the biggots, the sexists, and for the killers, and for the big house pin sentenced cats becoming redeemers, remember the spring time always seems to show up right after the winter, this is for every one of you, make sure that by the time the fisherman returns, you're gone, because just like the days, I burn at both ends, every time I write, every time I open my eyes I'm cutting out parts of myself to give to you, so shake the dust and take me with you when you do, none of this has ever been for me, all the pushes and pulls pushes for you, so grab this wool by it's clothes pins, shake it out again and again, jump on top and take it for a spin, and when you hop off, shake it again for this is yours, make my words worth it, make this not just another poem that I write, not just another poem like just another night that sits heavy above us all, walk into it, breathe it in let it crash through the halls of your arms like the millions of years of millions of poets, coursing like blood, pumping and pushing, making you live, shaking the dust, so when the world knocks at your front door, clench the knob tightly and open on up, running forward into it's widespread greeting arms with your hands before you... finger tips trembling though they may be.
find a treat from the wonderful Anis Mojgani every day here
Like Jordan.Jordan tattoos the words"FORGIVE ME"in thick black lettersdown the inside of his arm,so that when he looks at his wrist,he will remember to not hate himself so much.
After Jack left,Mary started sticking her facebetween the film projectorand the movie screen,so that when the credits roll,she still gets to be somebody.
When Tara's past comes back,she mashes chalk into the sidewalkuntil her knuckles bleed.She scribbles and scrapesscribbles and scrapes,until the words take shape,and this is what they say,they say, "i wanna die."hold tight if I love you coz it might not last long.
we're all gonna die.that's the exciting part.It's learning how to live for a living.That's the tricky bitch.Just ask Denise,
Denise, whose family taught her when she came into this world,that family equals love.So, Denise took that shit seriouslybut after a lifetime of craving acceptance from their cruelty,she now finds herself jamming polaroid pictures of these people into her typewriterand pounding out the last letter of the word "mercy"over and over.
She strikes the key "y","why why why why why."
And the answer?It comes in the form of a hand written letter from the moon.
It says,"This is brutally beautiful.So are we.This is endless.So are we.We can heal this.
P.S. See me for who I am. We got work to do.
But my father,he didn't read moon,he didn't speak moon,he didn't write moon.So there was no note
There are still days you can catch metape recording internal silenceand playing it backwards for an empty room.Just so I can listen to his dying wish."shhh"
It's true.The apple doesn't fall too far from the tree.But thank goodness,My family treewas in an orchard on a hillthat rolled me to the riverand that riverripped me to the rapidsand those rapidsrushed me into this moment.Right here,right now,with you.At the mouth.
My mouth....this is my church.And this church is a house of healing.Hallelujah.Welcome,come on in.As you are.Have a look around.
There are massive stacks of bad choices in my backyard,clearly, I have not yet reached enlightenmentbeyond a few fleeting moments,but i'm trying.
And I found something here I want you to have,it's not much,just a story,but it's all I got.So take it.It's called Dillon.
Dillon's drug of choice was "more."So Dillon took more and more and more.Until the day he woke up babbling in a pool of his own traffic jam.Realizing he is killing off the best parts of himself,
When he looked down at his heart flap,it read "boy, go find your spine, and ride it out of here."
Wylennes guts said "Day one."Jordans arm read "fully forgiven."Mary's face, "The ENDless."Tara's knuckles,"Healing."Denise's fingers typed, "C""See see see see see."
and Dylan said my smile,it said "fix it."So I came back here, to the mouth of the riverto look at my own reflection under the moonlightand see what it says for myself.
On my whole body, it is written..
See me for who I am.We got work to do.Our skin, "brutally beautiful."a hand written letter from the Sun.
The concept: the world, the universe and everything that they entail is one big fluxuating being, changing, developing, adapting.
Thinking of the sea as a massive thermometer constantly testing the land- am I closer? Am I overstepping the mark? or not living up to your expectations?
There is no route straight up the mountain.
The world doesn't keep dying.
It dies and regrows, like it has been taken to with a large pair of scissors, grooming it to become something new, to change and evolve, adapt and become.
It may not work properly anymore.
The days may seem longer, the sun shine brighter, the oil spread a little thinner and the polar bears swimming around looking for somewhere to stand which won't melt beneath their weary feet.
But we are not in charge of protecting the planet. she is way bigger than us. too big for us to even comprehend, because shes tied by strands of existence to every other single part of our comprehension, all fluxuating, all changing, evolving, becoming.
It is not our role to protect this planet. She bore us and we should look after her, reciprocate the affection. But she can look after herself. If she gets to hot she'll send an ice age. If she feels too warm, as we burn all her forests, carve up her land and melt into her seas, she will react.
We can hurt the ones we love repeatedly, tear them into pieces and go back for more, but the planet will not submit.
She is much bigger than us.
But the awareness can stick.
The awareness that the future for our children may be much too bright, full of chaos and lost animals searching for the ark. We should look around and assess the situation. Take stock of what we have had, we what have now and what we could have in the future.
Lovelock is a great man. He has accepted the courageous bond between science and philosophy and ecology to link up his theories with a myth, with a narrative that draws us in and relates with us.
But what does this mean for the children of Africa? being pushed out into the desert as the overpopulated west winds up the drawbridges and swings 'closed' signs in the windows of all the doors in all the streets of all the cities.
They cannot turn up the air conditioning, or shut the window to keep it all out.
The bodies are crawling to work, climbing up the ladder, smiling to themselves and nodding their heads.
I don’t really understand why. I mean, of course, I understand the concept of ‘the economy’ and 'capitalism' and why labour makes money makes the world go round, but I am just so confused.
I understand why in today’s ‘credit crunch’ climate that we should keep spending money, support smaller businesses and try not to let the economy lapse any more, but when situations such as the police reaction to the G20 protests on weds last week occur I get a little bit more confused. Surrounding a group of people, penning them in and refusing to let them leave… a peaceful protest - supposedly.
Who are these people working in the government? Working for the police? Working for the banks/ institutions/ reading the sun/times/telegraph/ watching the BBC and being spoon fed their own opinions. It’s like the heads on top of the bodies refuse to be accountable so they act as hosts for whatever the globalised authority believes should be correct at that particular moment in time. Are we those people?
Jeremy Bowen, the BBC’s Middle East correspondent, has been accused of lacking impartiality. Call me naive, but reporting on the Middle East for your entire journalistic career does mean that you may develop an opinion- nay, an understanding (albeit subjective, as are all understandings/histories etc) of the particular situation. It is why journalists are journalists. They want to develop an understanding that is closer to a truth (albeit subjective, as are all truths/understandings/histories etc) so as to relate a situation/ the ‘news’ to an audience. An audience that can then develop an opinion (albeit subjective yet again, as are truths/understanding/histories etc) and an audience who can then choose for themselves the thoughts that their bodies host and filter into their actions.
I understand that the BBC strives for this ideal of impartiality, strives to be a fair representative of the good old people of Britain, but the atmosphere is changing. It is always changing. To scapegoat one of their best correspondents due to a few complaints is surprisingly not that shocking at all. Especially when we see the President of Iran attack Israel (after declaring how he wishes to wipe it off the map/argues that it should never have existed in the first place) resulting in half of Europe stepping back out of the UN boardroom into the safe zone, and shouting ant-Semitism at the top of their lungs. And quite rightly- what Ahmadinejad says is anti-Semetic and it is anti Israeli.
I personally do have issues with two roads being created in one country- one for Israelis, one for Palestinians, and the difference in quality of each road. And I also have issues with the way id cards are issued. And I also have issues with the path of the Israeli security fence/ land possession/ house demolitions/ embargos on Gaza/ owing airspace/water space and land which is technically Palestinian. Some actions of which could in fact be interpreted as oppressive, or indeed, racist.
It seems this man has taken it upon himself to state what he believes. Rather than letting it slide, he is not letting go. This could be his best –or worst decision to date. Especially when taking into account the current international climate.
I’m so confused as to how the world is up in arms over some statements by an angry man- albeit an angry biased man, who is actually making some very interesting points that are without a shadow of a doubt, true.
I keep forgetting what democracy is. And what honesty is. And what it is to fight for what you believe in. There is a very long way to go yet.
As once the winged energy of delight
As once the winged energy of delight carried you over childhood's dark abysses, now beyond your own life build the great arch of unimagined bridges. Wonders happen if we can succeed in passing through the harshest danger; but only in a bright and purely granted achievement can we realize the wonder. To work with Things in the indescribable relationship is not too hard for us; the pattern grows more intricate and subtle, and being swept along is not enough. Take your practiced powers and stretch them out until they span the chasm between two contradictions...For the god wants to know himself in you.
This website is a series of assignments given by
Miranda July (of you and me and everyone we know)
and harrell fletcher.
the assignments vary from:
16. Make a paper replica of your bed.
58. Record the sound that is keeping you awake.
65. Perform the phone call someone else wished they could have.
63. Make an encouraging banner.
it is good.
She rested her paws and thought about what waited for her in the city. She had been emailing a boy. a boy bear. He had spoken to her of promises of shopping sprees and car rides and supermarkets where you can buy fish wrapped in a plastic, already skinned with the bones removed. She felt nervous as she licked the honey from her paws. She had never met the bear from her emails in real life. the sweet taste clashed with a bitter thought.. what if she was too rural? too country? too much of a forester?
she breathed in deeply and shook her head, trying to discard the negative thoughts and remain focused on her new future in the city.
He sat with his back to the rocks and watched the she bear cautiously from the corner of his eye as she stood to leave. She seemed familiar. He could not place the red tone of her fur, the dull brown eyes, or the softeness of her growling voice. He thought about other girl bears he had met (mostly in the city) and decided that she was one of the best. She didnt need claw polish or glasses or lip stick to make her beautiful. All she needed was the sun shining on her dark burgundy coat. It was a unique colour.. a colour that he knew he had seen somewhere before...
He joined her standing up and they both looked out across the tree tops. He thanked her for her time and for sharing the honey and she gave him a little smile.
Then with a rush of realisation he placed her image. it was enclosed in an email he had recieved around three weeks ago, from a wonderful young bear he had found on matchsticks dot com, a girl headed for the city, bored of the forest and forest bears.
He spoke to her.
"I'll walk with you- if you don't mind.."
She smiled, a little more this time and nodded her approval, slowing to walk alongside the bear, facing the city, a turn out for the books indeed.
He stood up and shut his eyes in the morning sun.
When he opened them again, a brief moment later, he was confronted with the image of a bear, stood at the other side of the clearing, staring back at him in disbelief.
Taking a moment to gather his thoughts, then suddenly, with out thinking about it, he spoke to the mirror image.
The bear opened her mouth to say something, but stopped herself, and instead, she turned to leave.
"Wait!.. sorry, please, where are you going?"
She stopped and turned around to face the bear. She looked him over, his ruffled fur, shiny eyes, and the faint smell of cigarettes and... the rain forest?
Confused she answered him sharply.
"To the city!" She answered, " And I need to leave now, I have taken far too long..." She picked up a small purse that was sat by her side, Shook her fur and smiled, " Good day, Mr Bear"
"Wait, wait, please... are you sure?" The Bear followed the stranger, "You don't understand, the city.. its so.. it.. it does something to you, please... you don't know what you have here, the birds, the bees, the honey..."
The she bear carried on walking, but the thought of honey made her slow down. The honey in the forest was the best honey she had ever tasted... Maybe she could just go back to the mountain for one last taste of fresh honey? She knew it wouldn't be the same in the city... What was one more day?.. plus this bear had the aura of a city bear around him, maybe he knows how to get a job, an apartment, one of those wonderful desk jobs where you answer phones all day and give out useful information.. perhaps even for the government or the home office?
"Okay" She replied, "I will compromise. I shall come with you to the mountain to eat some honey, and if in that time, you can convince me not to leave for the city, I will consider staying..." She smoothly changed direction and glanced behind her as the other bear followed her path without looking up, but with an eager spring in his step.
The bears mind wandered as he galloped towards the trees of his home. He suddenly began to remember all the good things about his life as a woodland creature. He began to reminisce about the warm summer days spent prostrate in the sun by the river, head dangling over the speeding water to watch the pink salmon struggle upstream, with a fond smile.
He suddenly realised he was panting and slowed his pace to catch his breath.. He never used to need to catch his breath when he was a younger bear...
But then he never smoked marlboro reds when he lived in the forest.
He looked up to find himself inside the darkening woods . He peered into the trees, his eyes adjusting to the darkness, when a tingling sensation of fear pulled at his stomach... Which way was home?
He continued onwards, ignoring the feeling of fear that prompted the desire for a cigarette and focused on the good things about his natural home. The squirrels, the flowers, the smell of pine trees, the softness of the soil beneath his feet... and best of all... the honey combs. How he had missed climbing trees to get to the sweet sweet nectar of the bees. When living in the city he had caught himself on more than one occasion in the morning, stopped outside a house, intently sniffing the air as the children inside spooned their chosen topping upon their toasted bread.. had had seen, only once, a singular bee hive, standing solitary in the cramped back garden of a house in the city. He had stopped in shock, watching the bees gather and swarm around the little white box with glee, happily tending to their days work...
He was happy to be coming home. He had missed the forest. and the company of other bears. especially one bear in particular... He let his natural sense of direction lead the way and yawned as the moon rose above him.
He veered off to the left, leaving the buzz of traffic and dimming sky behind him. The forest looked like a cardboard cut out against the glow of the setting sun, silhouetted perfectly. The bear blinked at the sun and dipped his head once again to sniff the cold damp earth.
It still smelt like the city.. of cars and noise and tyres and dogs.
There weren't any dogs in the forest, he thought to himself. He smiled at the thought of strolling through the trees, not having to glance down repeatedly to check for dog poo. His paws were so big that at times in the city, he managed to squash not just one, but two deposits in one step. Once, when in the park across the street from his flat, as he sat underneath the small clutch of evergreens that reminded him of home, he watched as dogs one by one came into the park with their owners dragging behind them, pooing and picking up, pooing and picking up.
What a bizarre way of living he thought to himself.
He picked up his pace, until he found himself at a lolloping gallop, crossing the dark fields to the forest as quickly as his strong legs would allow, feeling the strecth in his muscles and the blood heat up as it pounded through his skin. The city dropped behind him, smudged out of focus by the smoky haze of the night sky.
The bear had remembered what was waiting for him in amongst the trees.