lying does not count at the library. <3
only punks are beautiful. :~

lying does not count at the library. <3

only punks are beautiful. :~

(Source: thisishangingrockcomics)

flanagan, 2001.

so there you have it: two things & i can’t bring them together & they are wrenching me apart. these two feelings, this knowledge of a world so awful, this sense of a life so extraordinary - how am i to resolve them?

* on gould’s book of Fish: a novel in twelve fish

let every wasted seed of desire become a beautiful flower

watch it unfold hour by hour
rise higher and higher

we pay for our lives with our deaths
everything in between should be free.

woods, 1997.

the scar is a deeper level of reconstruction that fuses the new and the old, reconciling, coalescing them, without compromising either one in the name of some contextual form of unity. the scar is a mark of pride and of honor, both for what has been lost and what has been gained. it cannot be erased, except by the most cosmetic means. it cannot be elevated beyond what it is, a mutant tissue, the precursor of unpredictable regenerations. to accept the scar is to accept existence. healing is not an illusory, cosmetic process, but something that - by articulating differences - both deeply divides and joins together.

* on radical reconstruction.

luiselli, 2014.

cities have often been compared to language: you can read a city, it’s said, as you read a book. but the metaphor can be inverted. the journeys we make during the reading of a book trace out, in some way, the private spaces we inhabit. there are texts that will always be our dead-end streets; fragments that will be bridges; words that will be like the scaffolding that protects fragile constructions. t.s. eliot: a plant growing in the debris of a ruined building; salvador novo: a tree-lined street transformed into an expressway; tomas segovia: a boulevard, a breath of air; roberto bolano: a rooftop terrace; isabel allende: a (magically real) shopping mall; gilles deleuze: a summit; and jacques derrida: a pothole. robert walser: a chink in the wall, for looking through to the other side; charles baudelaire: a waiting room; hannah arendt: a tower, an archimedean point; martin heidegger: a cul-de-sac; walter benjamin: a one-way street walked down against the flow.

* on sidewalks.

carr, 1946.

no part of living was normal. we lived on fish and fresh air. we sat on things not meant for sitting on, ate out of vessels not meant to hold food, slept on hardness that bruised us; but the lovely, wild vastness did something to it all. i loved every bit of it - no boundaries, no beginning, no end, one continual shove of growing - edge of land meeting edge of water, with just a ribbon of sand between. sometimes the ribbon was smooth, sometimes fussed with foam. trouble was only on the edges; both sea and forests in their depths were calm and still. virgin soil, clean sea, pure air, vastness by day, still deeper vastness in dark when beginnings and endings joined.

* on growing pains: the autobiography of emily carr.

what being a woman means to you?

being a woman is a creative experiment. being a woman is rejecting and subverting popular demarcations of the category “woman.” embodiment of the female sex takes on many forms and blurs the lines and boundaries of the category itself. in more simplistic terms it’s about redefining words like “feminine” and “femininity,” broadening them, and creatively reworking them through your own embodiment, and by honoring the embodiment of others. i search for archetypal representations of femininity that resonate with my temperament and body type. being a woman means experiencing and feeling darkness on a regular basis, knowing that you are a target for violence and that people make ideological assumptions about you based on your gender and sexuality that have nothing to do with who you are. being a woman means being a truth seeker. as a truth seeker you often venture alone. you take arduous and painful paths that deliver honest rewards. you walk into the dark often, trusting that you are not alone, but that you are witnessing the complexities multiplicities of life itself. it means self-preservation and self-protection in celebration of the preservation and protection of all life. it means speaking your truth and expressing what dwells in your bones, understanding that dominant forces will probably not support you.

— emily jane white

jamison, 2014.

empathy isn’t just listening, it’s asking the questions whose answers need to be listened to. empathy requires inquiry as much as imagination. empathy requires knowing you know nothing. empathy means acknowledging a horizon of context that extends perpetually beyond what you can see.


empathy comes from the greek empatheia - em (“into”) and pathos (“feeling”) - a penetration, a kind of travel. it suggests you enter another person’s pain as you’d enter another country, through immigration and customs, border-crossing by way of query: what grows where you are? What are the laws? What animals graze there?


empathy isn’t just something that happens to us - a meteor shower of synapses firing across the brain - it’s also a choice we make: to pay attention, to extend ourselves.

* from the empathy exams.

the solid body does not exist.

the solid body does not exist.

harrison, 2006.

when you wake at 3am you don’t think
of your age or sex and rarely your name 
or the plot of your life which has never 
broken itself down into logical pieces.
at 3am you have the gift of incomprehension 

* on saving daylight.

vaneigem, 1967.

people who talk about revolution and class struggle without referring explicitly to everyday life, without understanding what is subversive about love and what is positive in the refusal of constraints, such people have a corpse in their mouth.

* on the revolution of everyday life.

it’s beautiful to build a house and it’s beautiful to let the house be built.

many complain of the conflicts that arise in a shared life. i think the worst conflicts are the comfort zones. for good or bad. both, with the same destructive habit, potentiate the end of each - together. both, with the same tastes, desires and times, potentiate the legitimacy, the lack of space for the new in each.

conflictual is to see yourself from the outside and not be recognized. conflict is the moment between what i thought to be and what i am. conflict is the mismatch between yesterday and today, between illusion and reality - or simply evolution.

evolution is conflict.

and a house is built as a relationship builds. neither pure freedom nor total control: the value lies in both, on the balance between it all. it’s the architect that observes him/herself with the outside eye - the eye that narrates the meaning of storms and sunny days. those who have no desire to build lose very much of their individuality. and nothing can be more beautiful than look to the side and see an architect.

a project is useless if it’s not brought out of the paper. and a house will never look exactly the same as the initial drawing. maybe that bathroom which ended up too small or that design for the front gate that isn’t functional. you adapt it. or simply to plan a home and noticing that the dining room was never used and regreting just until you realize that the kitchen table has turned, with no big plans, into a space for a passionate moment at breakfast every single day.

and so is life.

it’s building and realizing what grows wild around you. being the master and the puppet of it all. the author and reader of your own narrative.


bending blades on the longest of days you’ve encountered in an ice age. keeping time with an old sun, beating down like it’s the last one. aren’t you so privileged to witness it fall? your observation makes you twice as small. in a day, cut a tall tree in two. build it high in the back by your self. burn it in the afternoon. aren’t you so privileged to witness it fall if you, for one moment, were moved by it all? but if you’re not caught in the moment i won’t mind. i won’t set my expectations high where they should be. what a slippery slope to climb! 

when i find my feet, i would soon retreat to a tower made of ivory where i’d contemplate the mess i’ve made and take comfort in the temporary.

minha cabeça trovoa

sob meu peito te trovo e me ajoelho, destino canções pros teus olhos vermelhos, flores vermelhas, vênus, bônus, tudo o que me for possível ou menos, mais ou menos, me entrego, ofereço, reverencio a tua beleza - física também, mas não só. graças a deus você existe. acho que eu teria um troço se você dissesse que não tem negócio. te ergo com as mãos, sorrio mal, mal sorrio, meus olhos fechados te acossam fora de órbita, descabelada, diva, súbita, seja meiga, seja objetiva, seja faca na manteiga. pressinto como você chega, ligeira, vasculhando a minha tralha, bagunçando a minha cabeça, metralhando na quinquilharia que carrego comigo - clipes, grampos, tônicos - toda a dureza incrível do meu coração, feita em pedaços.

sob teu peito eu encontro a calmaria e o silêncio no portão da tua casa no bairro. famílias assistem tv - eu não - às 8 da noite. eu fumo um marlboro na rua como todo mundo e, como você, eu sei. quer dizer, eu acho que sei. vou sossegado e assobio e é porque eu confio em teu carinho, mesmo que ele venha num tapa, e caminho a pé pelas ruas da lapa - logo cedo, vapor, acredita? - a fuligem me ofusca, a friagem me cutuca, nascer do sol visto da vila ipojuca, o aço fino da navalha me faz a barba, o aço frio do metrô, o halo fino da tua presença. sozinha, na padóca em santa cecília, no meio da tarde, soluça - quer dizer - relembra, batucando com as unhas coloridas na borda de um copo de cerveja, resmunga quando vê que ganha chicletes de troco, lembrando que um dia eu falei ”sabe, você tá tão chique. meio freak, anos 70. fique. fica comigo. se você for embora eu vou virar mendigo. eu não sirvo pra nada, não vou ser teu amigo. fique. fica comigo.”

sob teu manto me entrego ao desafio de te dar um beijo, entender o teu desejo, me atirar pros teus peitos, meu amor é imenso, maior do que penso, é denso, espessa nuvem de incenso, de perfume intenso e o simples ato de cheirar-te me cheira a arte, me leva a marte, a qualquer parte, a parte que ativa a química. ignora a mímica e a educação física só se abastece de mágica, explode uma garrafa térmica por sobre as mesas de fórmica de um salão de cerâmica onde soem os cânticos. convicção monogâmica, deslocamento atômico para um instante único em que o poema mais lírico se mostre a coisa mais lógica, e se abraçar com força descomunal até que os braços queiram arrebentar toda a defesa que hoje possa existir e por acaso queira nos afastar esse momento tão pequeno e gentil e a beleza que ele pode abrigar.

querida, nunca mais se deixe esquecer onde nasce e mora todo o amor.