Hands In Denis Sarazhin’s Art

a lot of you aren't interested in identities as avenues for meaningful self-understanding, or for organization and solidarity with others. you're just shameless individualists cultivating a personal brand. the ultimate consumers, parading around, pretending to be leftists. how fucking embarrassing

academia things that genuinely make me happy:

large textbooks filled with extra papers which hold the answers to the problems you thought were too brilliant to be thrown away, or the simple short summary of a part you were struggling to understand before

having your textbook absolutely ruined by highlighters and sticky notes all over it, those little tips and ideas you picked up from the lesson. anyone who opens that book immediately knows that you’ve studied the crap out of it and know the concept by heart. “this is the most annotated book i’ve ever seen” is literally the highest form of compliment for me.

solving math or chemistry problems to a soundtrack album or ambient sounds, extra points if it’s in afternoon lol

when you’re so focused and keen on getting to the final answer that your hand physically can’t keep up with your eagerness so you end up with the most incoherent solution. but you’ve finally got the answer right!

being self-taught in a subject or a few chapters of the textbook, and still smashing the quizzes and the exams

coming up with a new solution to the problem, or seeing the problem from a new perspective, and finally being able to solve it because of just that.

confidently walking out of the exam room. 0 doubt in your mind that you crushed it!

actually feeling how you’ve grown academically, and how much more knowledgeable you are compared to the beginning of the semester

casually and confidently having conversations with a professor about your studies, exchanging ideas and discussing the existing theories, methods, on-going research and all

all of this is everything i want in life- god 

Another point for why it’s important to own your own copies of music and media, and not use streaming services, is because the copy you own can’t be taken back.

(This is also a good time to remind people that yout*be to mp3 converters still exist).

was on the phone with my oldest sister two days ago, after a long long day. on the floor of my bedroom, full face of makeup and sweat on my forehead. she said 'you know our mother is a bit cruel right? more than others' and. she's right. that also wasn't the right moment to be saying that. how could i tell her 'you haven't lived with her in six years. i've seen her nearly every single day. she's crueler and sadder and more pitiful than ever. you're right. she's cruel. how could u say that so easily though. she's made me cry nearly every day for over a month. you've been her daughter ten years longer than i have. how could you call her cruel. have you forgotten what its like to be her daughter? now that you're a mother. now that motherhood holds more meaning to you. now that motherhood isnt only the way our mother gave her all to give us the healthiest, strongest bodies but forgot to give us healthy minds. do you just remember her as cruel? though its been years since you were subjected to it?"

i didnt say all that though. just. 'yea, wouldnt i know it'

I am asking you to endure it.

i hate the idea of a True Self that you Never Show To Anyone like the me by myself isn’t me partly because humans are defined imo by their social interactions as we are social creatures but mostly because that guy is a gremlin. the disgusting idiot who crawls out of my bed at 1pm and eats peanut butter from the jar isn’t me he’s the manifestation of a collection of weird impulses that all give way at once. saying that dude is Truly Me In An Objective Way, as if that exists, is such bullshit like [holds up a creature that is on the cusp of going insane because its species literally cannot be alone for any significant amount of time] behold, a True Self! give me a break

this is a poem

Some warm poetry, for cold evenings:

Molly Fisk, “Winter Sun” (We can make do with so little / just the hint of warmth, the slanted light.)

Pat Schneider, “The Patience of Ordinary Things” (It is a kind of love, is it not? / how the cup holds the tea.)

Barbara Ras, “Bite Every Sorrow” (You can speak a foreign language, sometimes / and it can mean something.)

Jack Gilbert, “Failing and Flying” (Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.)

Lisel Mueller, “Things” (Even what was beyond us / was recast in our image; / we gave the country a heart, / the storm an eye)

Rabindranath Tagore, “On the Seashore” (The sea plays with children, and pale gleams the smile of the sea-beach / On the seashore of endless worlds children meet)

John O’Donohue, “Matins” (May I live this day / Compassionate of heart / Gentle in word / Courageous in thought)

Wallace Stevens, “The House Was Quiet and The World Was Calm” (The summer night is like a perfection of thought. / The house was quiet because it had to be)

Brian Patten, “Inessential Things” (Cats remember what is essential of days)

Emily Dickinson, “Simplicity” (How happy is the little stone / that rambles in the road, alone)

Yi Lu, “Valley’s Green” (flowers like tiny saucers — little bowls — little cups / filled to the brim with their own colors)

Jacques Prévert, “How to Paint a Bird’s Portrait” (When the bird comes / if it comes / observe the most profound silence)

Archibald MacLeish, “Eleven” (Happy as though he had no name, as though
 / He had been no one: like a leaf, a stem,
 / Like a root growing…)

Denise Levertov, “A Woman Alone” (Then / self-pity dries up, a joy / untainted by guilt lifts her. / She has fears, but not about loneliness)

Richard Brautigan, “Your Catfish Friend” (I’d love you and be your catfish / friend and drive such lonely / thoughts from your mind)

Linda Gregg, “The Letter” (I’m not feeling strong yet, but I am taking
 / good care of myself)

Andrew Lang, “Ballade of True Wisdom” (And I’d leave all the hurry, the noise, and the fray, / For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers)

Ada Limón, “The Raincoat” (my whole life I’ve been under her / raincoat thinking it was somehow a marvel / that I never got wet.)

Jorge Luis Borges, “The Just” (These people, unaware, are saving the world)

Wendell Berry, “The Peace of Wild Things” (I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.)