It always happens this way. The kids start lining up in front of the school bus again and you think about dressing up for Halloween and fail to dress up for Halloween and you take a slow shower without shampoo and it’s December. The year-end lists start popping up everywhere and you don’t recognize half of the things on them. Your checking account looks sort of hungry and mopey but the screen(s) you’re sitting in front of are offering you hundreds of amazing deals on things you need to buy for all the people in your life who mean a lot to you. You haven’t read the book you wanted to read last summer, your feet are cold, you’ve forgotten to make a doctor’s appointment about that thing that’s been bugging you, you caught some sort of virus from an airplane trip, you’re eating too much but fuck it, you’ve gradually begun drinking two cups of coffee in the morning instead of one and now you get a headache if you try to go back. You had that one night full of soft lights and dancing and garlic toast and a coat that wasn’t yours. You have said “I love you” hundreds of times and actually meant it. There are songs in every car asking you to sing them and smile. You take a minute to sit down and it’s December. You remember how lucky you are. You realize it’s been a hard year. You think about all the things coming up next year that are going to make it an incredible one. You’ve stumbled over something full of grace. You’ve cried in different places every month of the last year. You think if you could collect all the tears in a big jar and pour them out over the balcony, yelling the whole time, yelling louder than you’ve ever yelled before, you might not have to do any of this again. You want to do all of this again. It’s December and the air is crisp and your arms smell like firewood. You’re tired. You’re still alive.
I’ve been practicing such smart writing habits throughout this whole dissertation process, leaving only the easiest little tasks for last!
A recent article in Slate highlighted the Beinecke Library’s project to catalog the Kilpatrick collection of nearly 2,000 documents written or printed in the Cherokee language.
Reblogging because 1) I love these illustrations, and 2) I have been wondering if my son’s almond eyes are a carry-over from my Cherokee great-great-grandma. (I studied a picture of my half-Cherokee great-grandpa this Thanksgiving to see if I could see a resemblance, but I couldn’t tell. What you inherit from whom is some sort of strange alchemy.)
But seriously, these illustrations. I think if I were ever going to get a tattoo I’d get that wishbone. Right?
If you were, HYPOTHETICALLY SPEAKING, on an airplane going cross-country with a woman traveling alone with her 3-and-a-half-month-old (very adorable!) baby, who will likely cry, as he has reflux and is ALSO currently teething … what would you want her to bring/do/say to you to make the flight less annoying?
I’m (HYPOTHETICALLY, HAHA) bringing earplugs for neighboring passengers for sure, just in case. And I think I’m going to introduce myself and explain the situation. But … help!
I just discovered Pharrell’s 24-hour music video and it’s now just on permanently in my house because it’s making me (go figure) happy.
The goddamn movies. They can ruin you. I’m not kidding.
Can we bring back “letter writer” as a legit career?
The sky outside is outside. We are passed
from one hand to another
like a ring taken off and fiddled with. Don’t put us
down anywhere to stay. If there is a throat
it is rising. We live and die as a group, we are tethered :
cloves bound by thin, papery
skin, a war whoop
of drum sets. What comes next
or comes after. Communion : the postlude playing
us out to the hall with the tablecloths
and folding chairs, with all the little lined-up
paper plates. There’s a lot of butter
in these grits : a lot of grit in these muttered
phrases, sputtering out of
horn-ends like unending, sacred prayers :
liquid air and cadence. We are the hardest to get to
the heart of. We are chili threads
left on the counter, we are pickled vegetables, filets
cut too thin. We are held by many hands now :
orison, evergreen. Tiramisu, offering. Take these ribs
and make them sing.