sometimes I wonder if Mary breastfed Jesus. if she cried out when he bit her or if she sobbed when he would not latch.
and sometimes I wonder if this is all too vulgar to ask in a church full of men without milk stains on their shirts or coconut oil on their breasts preaching from pulpits off limits to the Mother of God.
but then i think of feeding Jesus, birthing Jesus, the expulsion of blood and smell of sweat, the salt of a mother’s tears onto the soft head of the Salt of the Earth, feeling lonely and tired hungry annoyed overwhelmed loving
and i think, if the vulgarity of birth is not honestly preached by men who carry power but not burden, who carry privilege but not labor, who carry authority but not submission, then it should not be preached at all.
because the real scandal of the Birth of God lies in the cracked nipples of a 14 year old and not in the sermons of ministers who say women are too delicate to lead.
I’ve always loved this spoken word piece by Henry Rollins, and this video is perfect at capturing the mood. I don’t relate to everything in the poem but there’s parts in here that resonate for all of us weirdos and outcasts… I don’t know if this is based on any of Henry’s actual experiences, but it feels too real not to be. If so, I like to think Henry’s eventual success and the person he turned out to be was a massive vindication for the way “they” treated him.
I know you You were too short You had bad skin You couldn’t talk to them very well Words didn’t seem to work They lied when they came out of your mouth
You tried so hard to understand them You wanted to be a part of what was happening You saw them having fun and it seemed like such a mystery almost magic
Made you think that there was something wrong with you You’d look in the mirror trying to find it You thought that you were ugly and that everyone was looking at you
So you learned to be invisible To look down To avoid conversation
The hours, days, weekends, ah the weekend nights alone Where were you? In the basement? In the attic? In your room? Working some job just to have something to do Just to have a place to put yourself Just to have a way to get away from them A chance to get away from the ones that made you feel so strange and ill at ease inside yourself
Did you ever get invited to one of their parties? You sat and wondered if you would go or not For hours you imagined the scenarios that might transpire If they would laugh at you If you would know what to do If you would have the right things on If they would notice that you came from a different planet
Did you get all brave in your thoughts? Like you were going to be able to go in there and deal with it And have a great time Did you think that you might be the “life of the party”? That all these people were gonna talk to you And you would find out that you were wrong That you had a lot of friends And you weren’t so strange after all?
Did you end up going? Did they mess with you? Did they single you out? Did you find out that you were invited because they thought you were so weird?
Yeah, I think I know you You spent a lot of time full of hate A hate that was pure as sunshine A hate that saw for miles A hate that kept you up at night A hate that filled your every waking moment A hate that carried you for a long time
Yes, I think I know you You couldn’t figure out what they saw in the way they lived
Home was not home Your room was home A corner was home The place they weren’t, that was home
I know you
You’re sensitive And you hide it Because you fear getting stepped on one more time It seems that when you show a part of yourself that is the least bit vulnerable Someone takes advantage of you One of them, steps on you
They mistake kindness for weakness But you know the difference You’ve been the brunt of their weakness for years and strength is something that you know a bit about Because you had to be strong to keep yourself alive
You know yourself very well now And you don’t trust people You know them too well
You try to find that special person Someone you can be with Someone you can touch Someone you can talk to Someone you won’t feel so strange around And you found that they don’t really exist You feel closer to people on movie screens
Yeah, I think I know you You spend a lot of time day dreaming And people have made comment to that effect Telling you that you’re self involved and self centered
But they don’t know, do they? About the long night shifts alone About the years of keeping yourself company All the nights you wrapped your arms around yourself so you could imagine someone holding you The hours of indecision Self doubt The intense depression The blinding hate The rage that made you stagger The devastation of rejection
Well, maybe they do know But if they do they sure do a good job of hiding it It astounds you how they can be so smooth How they seem to pass through life as if life itself was some divine gift And it infuriates you to watch yourself with your apparent skill in finding every way possible to screw it up
For you life is long trip Terrifying and wonderful Birds sing to you at night The rain and the sun The changing seasons are true friends Solitude is a hard won ally Faithful and patient
And the article says, ‘The Mexican government confiscates approximately 30,000 illegal firearms per year.’ When the guns are taken they get dismantled and the metal is used to make other types of weapons that will later be utilized by their military. In 2012, Pedro Reyes, an artist from Mexico City, convinced his government to donate the guns to him and he turned them into musical instruments. So somewhere there’s a tambourine, a drum set, a guitar, All made by things that were used to take people’s lives, But now they create sound that puts life back into people’s bodies, Which is you say a weapon will always be a weapon, But we choose how we fight the war, And from this I learned that even the most destructive instruments can still create a melody worth dancing to, And sometimes don’t we also call that a battle? I wonder how long it took to convince the first rifle that it can hold a note instead of a bullet but still fire into a crowd and make everyone move. When I was 6 I was taught how to throw a punch, And in the 80s that was the Anti Bullying Movement. The first time one of my classmates took a ‘Yo Mama’ joke a little too far I remembered my training, So I turned his nose into a fountain. My fist 5 pennies, I closed my eyes, Made a wish, I came home with bloody knuckles and it was the first piece of artwork my family hung on the fridge. I remember staring at my hands the same way you stare at a midterm when all your answers are correct. I didn’t know what class this was, But I did know I was passing, And isn’t that what masculinity has become? A bunch of dudes afraid of their own feelings, Terrified of any emotion but anger, Yelling at the shadow on the wall, But still haven’t realized that we’re the ones standing in front of the light. We learn how to dodge and jab. We learn how to step in before we swing. We learn that the heart is the same size as the fist, But we keep forgetting they don’t have the same functions. We keep telling each other to man the fuck up When we don’t know what the fuck that even means. We turn our boys into bayonets, We point them in the wrong direction, We pull their triggers, And then we just ignore all the damage they’re doing in the distance. The word repurpose, It means to take an object and give it amnesia. It means to make something forget what it’s been trained to do so you can use it for a better reason. I am learning that this body is not a shotgun. I am learning that this body is not a pistol. I am learning that a man is not defined by what he can destroy. I am learning that a person who only knows how to fight can only communicate in violence, And that shouldn’t be anyone’s first language. I’m learning that the only difference between a garden and a graveyard is what you choose to put in the ground. You see, once, I came across a picture of a strange-looking violin. The caption said that it was made out of a rifle. I thought to myself, ‘Someday that could be me’.”
Gene Wilder was and always will be *my* Willy Wonka. RIP Mr. Wilder, and thank you for your lovely contribution to us all. 💜
We are the music-makers,
And we are the dreamers of the dreams;
Wandering by lonely sea breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams.
World-losers and world-forsakers
On whom the pale moon gleams,
Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world for ever, it seems.
With wonderful deathless ditties
We build up the world’s great cities,
And out of a fabulous story
We fashion an empire’s glory:
One man with a dream, at pleasure,
Shall go forth and conquer a crown,
And three with a new song’s measure
Can trample an empire down.
We, in the ages lying
In the buried past of the earth,
Built Nineveh with our sighing
And Babel itself with our mirth.
And o’erthrew them with prophesying
To the old of the new world’s worth –
For each age is a dream that is dying,
Or a new one, coming to birth.
know it sounds cliché, but time is so short. We can’t guarantee how long we’ll be here. And yet we waste time getting our ducks in a row, or doing the things we think we “have” to do.
As I get older, I have less and less tolerance for bullshit, and the more precious my time becomes. I don’t want to waste it in a job I hate, in a relationship that doesn’t work, in a friendship that’s toxic. I want to make dents in my bucket list, not excuses!
Saudade -Qué será?… yo no sé… lo he buscado en unos diccionarios empolvados y antiguos y en otros libros que no me han dado el significado de esta dulce palabra de perfiles ambiguos.
Dicen que azules son las montañas como ella, que en ella se oscurecen los amores lejanos, y un noble y buen amigo mío (y de las estrellas) la nombra en un temblor de trenzas y de manos.
Y hoy en Eca de Queiroz sin mirar la adivino, su secreto se evade, su dulzura me obsede como una mariposa de cuerpo extraño y fino siempre lejos -tan lejos!- de mis tranquilas redes.
Saudade… Oiga, vecino, sabe el significado de esta palabra blanca que como un pez se evade? No… Y me tiembla en la boca su temblor delicado.
Saudade…
LONGING
Longing – What is it? … I do not know … I have searched in a few dictionaries dusty and old and in other books that that have not given me the meaning of this sweet word of ambiguous profiles.
They say that blues are the mountains like her, that in her darken the distant loves, and a noble and good friend of mine (and of the stars) she named in a tremor of braids and hands.
And today in Eça de Queiroz without watching the fortune teller, her secret escapes, her sweetness obsesses me as a butterfly of fine and strange body always far – so far! – from my quiet nets.
Longing… Hear! Neighbor, do you know the meaning of this white word that like a fish escapes? No… And it trembles me in the mouth its delicate tremor…
Longing…
~ Pablo Neruda en Obras Completas I. De “Crepusculario” a “Las uvas del tiempo” 1923-1954. English translation by Thayne Tuason 2012
Alan Watts was a British-born American theological philosopher and I encourage you to look into his other lectures as well if you have the time!
This one is a little heavy, but so beautiful. I very much resonate with the view Alan presents here, of understanding life through the lens of death, as a contrast or counterpart, and in that way we stop fighting death and embrace it as part of the natural process. It is actually such a peaceful way of looking at both life and death together in tandem.
This piece went viral in the late 90’s as being author Kurt Vonnegut’s alleged commencement address at MIT in 1997. The story goes that Vonnegut’s wife received the piece by email and was so pleased with her husband’s cleverness that she forwarded it to quite a few people, lending some credibility to the claim.
Either way, it circulated around very quickly and generated a buzz. Australian director Baz Luhrman saw it and wanted to use the text for a project he was working on. He initially wanted to contact Vonnegut for permission, but upon investigation the real author emerged.
Mary Schmich, a columnist for the Chicago Tribune, had published the speech in a June 1997 article, intending to parody Commencement addresses in general. She did contact Vonnegut to clear up the confusion; nobody really knows how the speech came to be associated with Vonnegut, but he did praise Mary’s work.
Thankfully, Mary was happy for Bazza to use the text for a low-key spoken word remix on his 1998 album ‘Something For Everyone’. Surprisingly, it shot up the charts and cemented it’s place in art history as a quirky yet poignant and insightful classic hit.
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EVERYBODY’S FREE (TO WEAR SUNSCREEN) M. Schmich
Ladies and gentlemen of the class of ’97:
Wear sunscreen.
If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it. The long-term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by scientists, whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience. I will dispense this advice now.
Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth. Oh, never mind. You will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they’ve faded. But trust me, in 20 years, you’ll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can’t grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked. You are not as fat as you imagine.
Don’t worry about the future. Or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind, the kind that blindside you at 4 pm on some idle Tuesday.
Do one thing every day that scares you.
Sing.
Don’t be reckless with other people’s hearts. Don’t put up with people who are reckless with yours.
Floss.
Don’t waste your time on jealousy. Sometimes you’re ahead, sometimes you’re behind. The race is long and, in the end, it’s only with yourself.
Remember compliments you receive. Forget the insults. If you succeed in doing this, tell me how.
Keep your old love letters. Throw away your old bank statements.
Stretch.
Don’t feel guilty if you don’t know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn’t know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives. Some of the most interesting 40-year-olds I know still don’t.
Get plenty of calcium. Be kind to your knees. You’ll miss them when they’re gone.
Maybe you’ll marry, maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll have children, maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll divorce at 40, maybe you’ll dance the funky chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary. Whatever you do, don’t congratulate yourself too much, or berate yourself either. Your choices are half chance. So are everybody else’s.
Enjoy your body. Use it every way you can. Don’t be afraid of it or of what other people think of it. It’s the greatest instrument you’ll ever own.
Dance, even if you have nowhere to do it but your living room.
Read the directions, even if you don’t follow them.
Do not read beauty magazines. They will only make you feel ugly.
Get to know your parents. You never know when they’ll be gone for good. Be nice to your siblings. They’re your best link to your past and the people most likely to stick with you in the future.
Understand that friends come and go, but with a precious few you should hold on. Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography and lifestyle, because the older you get, the more you need the people who knew you when you were young.
Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard. Live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft. Travel.
Accept certain inalienable truths: Prices will rise. Politicians will philander. You, too, will get old. And when you do, you’ll fantasize that when you were young, prices were reasonable, politicians were noble, and children respected their elders.
Respect your elders.
Don’t expect anyone else to support you. Maybe you have a trust fund. Maybe you’ll have a wealthy spouse. But you never know when either one might run out.
Don’t mess too much with your hair or by the time you’re 40 it will look 85.
Be careful whose advice you buy, but be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia. Dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more than it’s worth.
But trust me on the sunscreen.
I heard about Bowie’s death yesterday evening and have still yet to fully process it. I wouldn’t have ever called myself a “huge fan” but I have literally been brought to tears because David Bowie’s contribution to the arts was so pervasive that you didn’t need to be a “fan” in order to have been influenced by his work. Jareth the Goblin King was my first fantasy crush, and I’ve had “Dance Magic Dance” in my head since yesterday. Snatches of his music that I didn’t even know I knew have come into my head at random moments, along with a “Oh yeah, I’d forgotten that was one of his songs!”
As I’ve been reading articles and details of his life I’ve been really touched. David Bowie genuinely cared about people, he lived to challenge people, in his life and in his music, to dream big and have the strength to reach for those dreams, to love yourself and accept yourself just as you are. The world has not lost “just another musician”; we have lost a hero, we have lost a friend and an ally. We have lost someone who kept his illness a secret, preferring to spend his last days in the studio to leave us a very special parting gift. So RIP David Bowie, and in your own words: “I don’t know where I’m going from here, but I promise it won’t be boring.”
Cadence Poetica 