- Heaven On Earth
- No Man’s Land
so it’s like anselm kiefer but with flowers
After I mentioned that Exxon was controlling the airspace above the Arkansas spill, I got a fiery Ask accusing me of spreading conspiracy theories because only the FAA controlled airspace. My mistake: the FAA is controlling the airspace above the spill, per Exxon’s request.
i’m on a political stint forgive me…
This is happening right now in my country Venezuela. All around the country Militaries are killing people just because we are defending what is Good. We want justice! We were doing a pacific protest and then they came and started to shoot and use gas against people and the government says that people need to show respect for the militaries. People are being seriously injured and murdered. Respect? Democracy? Peace? NICOLAS YOU ARE NOT MY PRESIDENT YOU COWARD.
GUYS PLEASE RB, I KNOW THAT EVERYONE IS WORRIED ABOUT WHAT’S HAPPENING IN BOSTON BUT WE ARE ABOUT TO GO ON A CIVIL WAR IN VENEZUELA!!
THEY JUST MADE MADURO TAKE THE OATH AS PRESIDENT, THEY’RE BURNING THE BALLOT BOXES, AND THEY’RE LEAVING THE COUNTRY WITH ALL THE PEOPLE’S MONEY
Let’s add to that that no International entity recognizes the election’s results and are asking for a recount, yet the CNE allowed Maduro to take the oath (wich was supposed to be on the 19th). The CNE’s president is leaving the country now.
We’re officially in a dictatorship.
signal boosting: crazy horrible things happening everywhere :(
lets hope that this spring Venezuela finds a way to survive
In Hyrule you don’t just say “I love you”, you say “Hyahhh *grunt* HIYAHH hutt ghyaat HIUAAAAAAHHHHH” which roughly translates to “I would break all the pots in Hyrule to gain your love” and I think that’s beautiful.
Andreas Gursky, cane weavers in a furniture factory, Nha Trang, Vietnam, 2004
Safia Elhillo & Jamaica Osorio - “What I Learned in the Fire”
“Love is just something to do until the war starts.”
Our first video from FInal Stage at CUPSI 2013. This poem from the championship team - NYU - transcends the traditional boundaries of what can be done in slam, in group poetry and on stage. Our hats are off to Safia and Jamaica.
“Heh. Heh. Heh. Are you sure you want to be telling me all this?
About your parents, the paranoia…
What am I giving you? I am giving you nothing. I am giving you things that God knows, everyone knows. They are famous in their deaths. this will be my memorial to them. I give you all these things, i tell you about his legs and her wigs–I do so later in this section–and relate my wondering if I should be having sex with my girlfriend in front of their closet the night of my father’s service, but after all that, what, in the end, have I given you? It seems like you know something, but you still know nothing. I tell you and it evaporates. I don’t care–how could I care? I tell you how many people I have slept with (thirty-two), or how my parents left this world, and what have I really given you? Nothing. I can tell you the names of my friends, their phone numbers, but what do you have? You have nothing. They all granted permission. Why is that? Because you have nothing, you have some phone numbers. It seems precious for one, two seconds. You have what I can afford to give. You are a panhandler, begging for anything, and I am the man walking briskly by, tossing a quarter or so into your paper cup. I can afford to give you this. This does not break me. I give you virtually everything I have. I give you all of the best things I have, and while these things are things that I like, Memories that I treasure, good or bad, like the pictures of my family on my walls I can show them to you without diminishing them. I can afford to give you everything. We gasp at the wretches on afternoon shows who reveal their hideous secrets in front of millions of similarly wretched viewers, and yet…what? Protected from all the world that, what, we do this or that, that our arms have made these movements and our mouths these sounds? Please. We feel that to reveal embarrassing or private things, like, say, masturbatory habits (for me, about once a day, usually in the shower), we have given someone something, that, like a primitive person fearing that a photographer will steal his soul, we identify our secrets, our pasts and their blotches, with our identity, that revealing our habits or losses or deeds somehow makes one less of oneself. But it’s just the opposite, more is more is more–more bleeding, more giving. These things, details, stories, whatever, are like the skin shed by snakes, who leave theirs for anyone to see. What does he care where it is, who sees it, this snake, and his skin? He leaves it where he molts. Hours, days, or months later, we come across a snake’s long-shed skin and we know something of the snake, we know that its of this approximate girth and that approximate length, but we know very little else. Do we know where the snake is now? What the snake is thinking now? No. By now the snake could be wearing fur, the snake could be selling pencils in Hanoi. The skin is no longer his, he wore it because it grew from him, but then it dried and slipped off and he and everyone could look at it.
And you’re the snake?
Sure. I’m the snake. So, should the snake bring it with him, this skin, should he tuck it under his arm? Should he?
No, of course not! he’s got no fucking arms! How the fuck would a snake carry a skin? Please. But like the snake, I have no arms–metaphorically speaking–to carry these things with. Besides, these things aren’t even mine. None of this is mine. My father is not mine–not in that way. His death and what he’s done are no mine. Nor are my upbringing nor my twon nor its tragedies. How can these things be mine? Holding me responsible for keeping hidden this information is ridiculous. I was born into a town and a family and the town and my family happened to me. I own none of it. It is everyone’s. It is shareware. I like it, I like having been a part of it, I would kill or die to protect those who are part of it, but I do not claim exclusivity. Have it. Take it from me. Do with it what you will. Make it useful. This is like making electricity from dirt; it is almost too good to be believed, that we can make beauty from this stuff.
But what about privacy?
Cheap, overabundant, easily gotten, lost, regained, bought, sold.
But what about exploitation? Exhibitionism?
Are you Catholic?
Then why are you talking about exhibitionism? It’s a ridiculous term. Someone wants to celebrate their existence and you call it exhibitionism. It’s niggardly. If you don’t want anyone to know about your existence, you might as well kill yourself. You’re taking up space, air.
what about dignity?
You will die, and when you die, you will know a profound lack of it. It’s never dignified, always brutal. What’s dignified about dying? It’s never dignified. And in obscurity? Offensive. Dignity is an affectation, cute but eccentric, like learning French or collecting scarves. And its fleeting and incredibly mercurial. And subjective. So fuck it.”
-Dave Eggers, “A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius”
This passage really struck a nerve. Been writing poetry lately, and have been wondering how i should feel about harvesting my life for poems.
i’m not sure if i like this… a bit too much focus on legs i think… but i really dig the divisions from teh floor and the wall