My daughter wakes up in the middle of the night crying as if she’d had a bad dream and that dream has made an impression, one that will make her look away and remember something terrifying or wonderful, it doesn’t matter, in a conversation on her first date or sharing a joint with strangers, answering questions about herself that she will never have all the answers to because so much of herself has been forgotten or could never be explained. And then she’ll realize all this and find herself in knowing that finding yourself is arbitrary.
“…anyone who attempts to do both, to adjust to his group and at the same time pursue his individual goal, becomes neurotic.” —
Carl Jung
There are people I don’t agree with, people I fantasize arguing with. What does this say about me? But more importantly, why have I been trying to please these people?
yes.
(via shh-utlow)
Photo submitted by Margaret Laffan
I stopped writing when I had panic attacks
I stopped writing when I met my boyfriend
I stopped writing when I graduated from college
I stopped writing when I had a baby.
I had so many excuses for not writing-
I don’t have time to write anymore I don’t even have time to read Writing creatively is such an egotistical thing Who cares what I have to say
And then I lost my train of thoughts
Other people’s thoughts become my thoughts
I feel disconnected
I cannot articulate what I mean anymore
My conversations are now dry
I rarely have stimulating conversations
and so writing is essential to my health. It may not be essential to anyone else’s.
fhycse:misstugui:o A bullet traveling through air. This image was created using an instrument called a shadowgraph.
(via misstugui-deactivated20091211-d)
(via boxocolor)
(via hokeyreligions)
… We entered, excited. The museum was free. Right away, the spirit of the arched doorways, carved window frames, and elegant artwork overtook us. Sally went left, I went right. A group of people seated in some chairs in the lobby stopped talking and stared at us.
“May I help you?” a man said. “No,” I said. “We’re fine.” I didn’t like to talk to people in museums. Tours and docents got on my nerves. What if they talked a long time about a painting you weren’t that interested in? I took a deep breath, moved on to another painting-fireworks over a patio in Mexico, maybe? There weren’t very good tags in this museum. In fact, there weren’t any. I stood back and gazed. Sally had gone upstairs. The people in the lobby had stopped chatting. They seemed nosy, keeping their eyes on me with irritating curiosity. What was their problem? I turned down a hallway. Bougainvilleas and azaleas pressed up right against the windows. Maybe we should have a picnic. Where was the Moorish courtyard? I saw some nice sculptures in another room, and a small couch. This would be a great place for reading. Above the couch hung a radiant print by Paul Klee, my favorite artist, blues and pinks merging softly in his own wonderful way. I stepped closer. Suddenly I became aware of a man from the lobby standing behind me in the doorway. “Where do you think you are?” he asked. I turned sharply. “The McNay Art Museum!” He smiled then, and shook his head. “Sorry to tell you. The McNay is three blocks over, on New Braunfels Street. Take a right when you go out of our driveway, then another right.” “What is this place?” I asked, still confused. He said, “Well, we thought it was our home.” My heart jolted. I raced past him to the bottom of the staircase and called out, “Sally! Come down immediately! Urgent!” I remember being tempted to shout something in our private language, but we didn’t have a word for this. Sally came to the top of the stairs smiling happily and said, “You have to come up here, there’s some really good stuff! And there are old beds too!” “No, Sally, no,” I said, as if she were a dog, or a baby. “Get down here. Speed it up. This is an emergency.” She stepped elegantly down the stairs as if in a museum trance, looking puzzled.
From Honeybee
She had some horses.
She had horses who were bodies of sand.
She had horses who were maps drawn of blood.
She had horses who were skins of ocean water.
She had horses who were the blue air of sky.
She had horses who were fur and teeth.
She had horses who were clay and would break.
She had horses who were splintered red cliff.
She had some horses.
She had horses with long, pointed breasts.
She had horses with full, brown thighs.
She had horses who laughed too much.
She had horses who threw rocks at glass houses.
She had horses who licked razor blades.
She had some horses.
She had horses who danced in their mothers’ arms.
She had horses who thought they were the sun and their bodies shone and burned like stars.
She had horses who waltzed nightly on the moon.
She had horses who were much too shy, and kept quiet in stalls of their own making.
She had some horses.
She had horses who liked Creek Stomp Dance songs.
She had horses who cried in their beer.
She had horses who spit at male queens who made them afraid of themselves.
She had horses who said they weren’t afraid.
She had horses who lied.
She had horses who told the truth, who were stripped bare of their tongues.
She had some horses.
She had horses who called themselves, “horse.”
She had horses who called themselves, “spirit.” and kept their voices secret and to themselves.
She had horses who had no names.
She had horses who had books of names.
She had some horses.
She had horses who whispered in the dark, who were afraid to speak.
She had horses who screamed out of fear of the silence, who carried knives to protect themselves from ghosts.
She had horses who waited for destruction.
She had horses who waited for resurrection.
She had some horses.
She had horses who got down on their knees for any savior.
She had horses who thought their high price had saved them.
She had horses who tried to save her, who climbed in her bed at night and prayed as they raped her.
She had some horses.
She had some horses she loved.
She had some horses she hated.
These were the same horses.
- Joy Harjo