We are, as a species, addicted to story. Even when the body goes to sleep, the mind stays up all night, telling itself stories.
, The Storytelling Animal: How Stories Make Us Human
I wish you were here
Autumn is the hardest season
The leaves are all falling
And they’re falling like they’re falling in love with the ground
And the trees are naked and lonely
I keep trying to tell them
New leaves will come around in the spring
But you can’t tell trees those things
They’re like me they just stand there
And don’t listen I wish you were here
Andrea Gibson, “Photograph” (via oofpoetry
Not what you see, but what you perceive: that’s poetry. Not the noise, but its rhythm; an arrangement of derangements; I’ll eat you to live: that’s poetry.
When movements have been unable to clear the clouds, it has been the poets—no matter the medium—who have succeeded in imagining the color of the sky, in rendering the kinds of dreams and futures social movements are capable of producing. Knowing the color of the sky is far more important than counting clouds. Or to put it another way, the most radical art is not protest art but works that take us to another place, envision a different way of seeing, perhaps a different way of feeling.
Robin DG Kelley
it is a serious thing
just to be alive
on this fresh morning
in the broken world.
My mother taught me this trick, If you repeat something over and over again, it loses it’s meaning…Our existence, she said, is the same way. You watch the sunset too often, and it just becomes 6pm. You make the same mistake over and over, you’ll stop calling it a mistake. If you just wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up one day you’ll forget why.
But writing well isn’t merely a utilitarian skill. It is about developing a rational grace and energy in your conversation with the world around you.
Do what you can, with what you have, where you are.