The dimension of all pleasant things. The reason beauty breathes. The feeling of the power of creation, speaking every language. The forebear of the kind of beauty that refuses to offer relief from itself, remains without denying anything; an anti-climax deaf to our protests, not cruel.
As massive as any solar system and as gravitational, it pulls with silence. It plunges through each of us as a movement so vast, so powerful, as a flood or a continuous fall.
It is the delicate touch of the organizing principle that builds without celebration. The neutral opposite of time and decay, contented…
If you’re a millennial, you’re aware that apparently everyone hates you.
You probably also experience the intensity of the irony that the generations who came before you feel totally at ease castigating you about your ‘entitlement problem.’
Entitlement is dangerous and repugnant because it’s contagious, but it’s not quite an accurate word for the purposes, and I certainly don’t think we were simply spoiled into it.
Entitlement, or at least the version millennials are branded with, is actually what it looks like when an entire generation is paralyzed by fear.
I’m a millennial, and I’m fairly certain that when we…
in an email.
To move how I move. To never force myself out of sweetness, into stress. To never imagine that anything besides where I am — this soft bed, the light and the fruit is right — is anywhere other than where I want to be. I long not to walk away from pleasure, into linear thought. Pleasure and comfort are so different. I long for ease.
The pearl woman — the story I have told about her — spoiled, undeserving, princess, subtle effort, quiet beauty, self- absorbed, ignorant, lost in thought, life too easy…
How many times does your heart bend you to its break,
And you can be free.
In each of our homes, the one hundred million suffering.
And you can be free.
They pin our eyelids open when we are born, singing,
And you can be free.
Once, Siddhartha saw old age.
Once, he saw sickness.
I know who you are, friends, tears in your songs.
We say we will stand again. Do you know what that means?
I’ll not bow to any heart smaller than yours.
Rip down the altars,
we are here.
I can smell the blood of a ripe thirst
where now I am the hunted I have been.
Wanting back every word I savaged from my own throat-
a sour sound paces its void.
This body untrained to its wishes easily
bent under answered prayers.
I would like not to hold the ocean away.
Rob me of my impossible strength.
It has taken me a long time to realize and even more time to say, I am not a pacifist. I’m not interested in being a pacifist. I cannot afford to be a pacifist in a culture that refuses to protect or believe a woman. I will defend myself.
I am tall and strong and that’s how I walk. I am friendly and open because I have the privilege to expect to be safe and the strength and willingness to protect myself when I’m not. Many others do not.
A couple years ago, when a man followed me down the…
Something broke in me yesterday that I didn’t know was still there. I am, indeed, white-hot stomach-turning sorrow and rage on behalf of my queer family, my LGBQT family, on behalf of POC, non-white people, on behalf of immigrants and their children, refugees, on behalf of Muslims and other marginalized groups. I am enraged that nearly half our nation voted in validation of abuse and discrimination against these people and now call our disappointment intolerance. Already a surge in violence and hate-crime from elementary schools to bus stops. Trump’s Amerikkka.
But I have felt that rage before. I have felt…
The silenced self wants silence, I hear.
Or, I heard, from a frayed voice hardly touching my body.
When I was Living Grief, a living grief, a lived grief —
bitterness shaped me as violently as any planet. As a violent planet.
The ripping flesh is its own call to peace, I hear.
And so, smoking still, my charred body held itself as its sorrow demanded.
Saying, what desire for peace aside from peace is?
And the blood in my ears doesn’t stop.
And my raw grief clutches my throat still.
But my joy is a terror…
You are good with words because you feared it was the only way to tell the truth. So you’ve scraped and dug and dirtied yourself mining them, sucking on them, rubbing them on your face like little pennies with your filthy hands. There isn’t a moral. Truth doesn’t have any mistress. Isn’t that what you wanted to say?