The Light Is Not Something You See, Exactly. You Don't Look At It, Or Breathe, You Feel A Pressure But
the light is not something you see, exactly. You don't look at it, or breathe, you feel a pressure but you don't look. It is like being in the same room as a man you love. Other people are in the room. He may be smoking a cigarette. And you know you are not strong enough to look at him (yet) although the fact that he is there, silent and absent beside a thin wisp of cigarette smoke, hammers you. You rest your chin on your hand, like a saint on a pillar. Moments elongate and drop. A radiance is hitting your skin from somewhere, every nerve begins to burn outward through the surface, your lungs float in a substance like rage, sweet as rage, no! - don't look.
Anne Carson, Kinds of Water
More Posts from Moonmovement and Others
Love like the horse chestnut loves carbon,
like the sun isn’t millions of miles away
or doomed. Love like a blue fir amongst white pines,
like a wide shovel opening the earth. Rewind
your favorite moments over early dinners:
the correct identification of an olive tree, climbing
65 feet up a fat trunk, turning backpack pockets
into houses for leaves. Love as eagerly as sprouting seeds,
as hungry as a goat up an argan tree. Love like you are
spotting a red squirrel for the first time. Relish in your blooming
knowledge of Latin, wood chopping, propagation. Love as easy as
hibiscus roots drink rain. Breathe in the smell
of earth-drenched boots. Savor the quick-flowing photos of pheasants and hedgehogs and newts.
Live like a pioneer species. Love like sempervirents: evergreen.
Love like every green thing ever planted
will live long and never burn
- Christina Thatcher, How to Love a Gardener
By the truth we are undone. Life is a dream. ‘Tis waking that kills us.
- Virginia Woolf, Orlando
Sometimes, there seems to be a halfway point between where you've been and everywhere else, and we were there.
Ada Limón, Oh Please, Let It Be Lightning
A picture lives by companionship, expanding and quickening in the eyes of the sensitive observer. It dies by the same token.
Mark Rothko, Statement
what are the best academic essays you’ve ever read?
audaces: a study in political phraseology
“domestici hostes”: the nausicaa in medea, the catiline in hannibal
catiline’s ravaged mind: “vastus animus”
the two voices of virgil’s aeneid
in defence of catiline
antony, fulvia, and the ghost of clodius in 47 bc
the duplicate revelation of portia’s death
virgil’s carthage: a heterotopic space of empire
the taciturnity of aeneas
gender and the metaphorics of translation
For why is it meaningless to write with no other function than to assuage fear? Doesn’t that function in itself have a meaning? And why fear the dismantling of language’s semantic function, its being representational of meaning, when that is but one more fear that will drive those in opposition to écriture to write?
Mary Ruefle, On Fear
From the Wikipedia page about the Fermi Paradox: Given the high scientific probability for alien existence, why can we find no evidence of their existence whatsoever?
Remains of colour on temple columns.
The rain hovering over the city for days finally fell. You were arriving after years...
Garous Abdolmalekian, Meeting tr. Ahmed Nadalizadeh and Idra Novey
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