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masthead photo by cheryl marland

«A good subject must contain in itself something that sheds a light on our moral experience. If it is incapable of this expansion, this vital radiation, it remains, however showy a surface it presents, a mere irrelevant happening, a meaningless scrap of fact torn out of its context. Nor is it more than a half-truth to say that the imagination which probes deep enough can find this germ in any happening, however insignificant. The converse is true enough: the limited imagination reduces a great theme to its own measure. But the wide creative vision, though no fragment of human experience can appear wholly empty to it, yet seeks by instinct those subjects in which some phase of our common plight stands forth dramaticallyand typically, subjects which, in themselves, are a kind of summary or foreshortening of life’s disperse and inconclusive occurrences.»
—Edith Wharton (1862-1937). Quote from: The Writing Of Fiction; see also the review by Roxane Gay in htmlgiant.

«A good subject must contain in itself something that sheds a light on our moral experience. If it is incapable of this expansion, this vital radiation, it remains, however showy a surface it presents, a mere irrelevant happening, a meaningless scrap of fact torn out of its context. Nor is it more than a half-truth to say that the imagination which probes deep enough can find this germ in any happening, however insignificant. The converse is true enough: the limited imagination reduces a great theme to its own measure. But the wide creative vision, though no fragment of human experience can appear wholly empty to it, yet seeks by instinct those subjects in which some phase of our common plight stands forth dramaticallyand typically, subjects which, in themselves, are a kind of summary or foreshortening of life’s disperse and inconclusive occurrences.»

—Edith Wharton (1862-1937). Quote from: The Writing Of Fiction; see also the review by Roxane Gay in htmlgiant.

Calle Principe, 25

rabbit-light:

 

Without warning we lose
the vastness of the fields
singular enigmas
the clarity we swear
we’ll preserve

but it takes us years
to forget someone
who merely looked at us

José Tolentino Mendonça

The Dummy’s Guide To Marriage Proposals by J.A. Pak
She first asked him to marry her when she was five, when `marry me’ meant `I like you more than anybody else’ and she loved everybody around her who was nice to her.  And he was so very nice to her.
She waited two more years to ask again.  He informed her, with regret, that he was already married.  She shouldn’t have dallied at recess.  She wanted to ask again when she was eleven, but she’d begun that process of self-suppression.  Her next proposal was when she’d just turned nineteen.  She was a little on the drunk side and he was so beautiful and all her emotions, her desires, her ambitions, her hopes just kept tumbling and tumbling out of her.  It was her longest proposal — about twenty minutes.  She cried.  And cried and cried.
She didn’t have the opportunity to ask again until she was fifty-six. She asked very lightly and he said that he loved her and always will.
Time flew and suddenly they were eighty-two.  Week by week he came by and they took long walks and he’d find himself proposing. And she’d smile and hold his hand and the question flies in circles, in small, looping circles like a toy aeroplane caught in a drift of warm air.
(Published at: Smoking Poet)

The Dummy’s Guide To Marriage Proposals by J.A. Pak

She first asked him to marry her when she was five, when `marry me’ meant `I like you more than anybody else’ and she loved everybody around her who was nice to her.  And he was so very nice to her.

She waited two more years to ask again.  He informed her, with regret, that he was already married.  She shouldn’t have dallied at recess.  She wanted to ask again when she was eleven, but she’d begun that process of self-suppression.  Her next proposal was when she’d just turned nineteen.  She was a little on the drunk side and he was so beautiful and all her emotions, her desires, her ambitions, her hopes just kept tumbling and tumbling out of her.  It was her longest proposal — about twenty minutes.  She cried.  And cried and cried.

She didn’t have the opportunity to ask again until she was fifty-six. She asked very lightly and he said that he loved her and always will.

Time flew and suddenly they were eighty-two.  Week by week he came by and they took long walks and he’d find himself proposing. And she’d smile and hold his hand and the question flies in circles, in small, looping circles like a toy aeroplane caught in a drift of warm air.

(Published at: Smoking Poet)

BLACKROCK by lucien quincy senna

BLACKROCK



Always say you hunger for me
then maybe it will be true
Puss in Boots
as you strut the saddest tale
by the Liffey
its iron lacing.
I can only make this walk
with you
so far huffing
thrusting like a crowd
at the hastening
the longest walk.

Wait for me pale blue child
meet me at the edges
make me peril of your
hush heavy hands
a farmer’s boy
fond of my obscenities
waves of unknown bells and carnal yells
bronze girl thundering
the forgotten streets of Blackrock
already too dark and too late
for love
for teenage goodbyes made.

Photo: Celbridge Abbey, County Kildare, Ireland (above); Black Rock City, Nevada (below). 


«Even as dawn approached, the number of moons didn’t increase. It was just the same old familiar moon. The one and only satellite that has faithfully circled the earth, at the same speed, from before human memory. As she stared at the moon, Aomame softly touched her abdomen, checking one more time that the little one was there, inside her. She could swear her belly had grown from the night before. 
I still don’t know what sort of world this is, she thought. But whatever world we’re in now, I’m sure this is where I will stay. Where we will stay. This world must have its own threats, its own dangers, must be filled with its own type of riddles and contradictions. We may have to travel down many dark paths, leading who knows where. But that’s okay. It’s not a problem. I’ll just have to accept it. I’m not going anywhere. Come what may, this is where we’ll remain, in this world with one moon. The three of us—Tengo and me, and the little one.
Put a tiger in your tank, the Esso tiger said, his left profile toward them. But either side was fine. That big grin of his facing Aomame was natural and warm. I’m going to believe in that smile, she told herself. That’s what’s important here. She did her own version of the tiger’s smile. Very naturally, very gently. 
She quietly stretched out a hand, and Tengo took it. The two of them stood there, side by side, as one, wordlessly watching the moon over the buildings. Until the newly risen sun shone upon it, robbing it of its nighttime brilliance. Until it was nothing more than a gray paper moon, hanging in the sky.»

(from: 1Q84.)

«Even as dawn approached, the number of moons didn’t increase. It was just the same old familiar moon. The one and only satellite that has faithfully circled the earth, at the same speed, from before human memory. As she stared at the moon, Aomame softly touched her abdomen, checking one more time that the little one was there, inside her. She could swear her belly had grown from the night before. 

I still don’t know what sort of world this is, she thought. But whatever world we’re in now, I’m sure this is where I will stay. Where we will stay. This world must have its own threats, its own dangers, must be filled with its own type of riddles and contradictions. We may have to travel down many dark paths, leading who knows where. But that’s okay. It’s not a problem. I’ll just have to accept it. I’m not going anywhere. Come what may, this is where we’ll remain, in this world with one moon. The three of us—Tengo and me, and the little one.

Put a tiger in your tank, the Esso tiger said, his left profile toward them. But either side was fine. That big grin of his facing Aomame was natural and warm. I’m going to believe in that smile, she told herself. That’s what’s important here. She did her own version of the tiger’s smile. Very naturally, very gently. 

She quietly stretched out a hand, and Tengo took it. The two of them stood there, side by side, as one, wordlessly watching the moon over the buildings. Until the newly risen sun shone upon it, robbing it of its nighttime brilliance. Until it was nothing more than a gray paper moon, hanging in the sky.»

(from: 1Q84.)

A Dreamby Jorge Luis Borges In a deserted place in Iran there is a not very tall stone tower that has neither door nor window. In the only room (with a dirt floor and shaped like a circle) there is a wooden table and a bench. In that circular cell, a man who looks like me is writing in letters I cannot understand a long poem about a man who in another circular cell is writing a poem about a man who in another circular cell … The process never ends and no one will be able to read what the prisoners write.(Translated, from the Spanish, by Suzanne Jill Levine.)Un SueñoJorge Luís BorgesEn un desierto lugar del Irán hay una no muy alta torre de piedra, sin puerta ni ventana. En la única habitación (cuyo piso es de tierra y que tiene la forma del círculo) hay una mesa de madera y un banco. En esa celda circular, un hombre que se parece a mí escribe en caracteres que no comprendo un largo poema sobre un hombre que en otra celda circular escribe un poema sobre un hombre que en otra celda circular… El proceso no tiene fin y nadie podrá jamás leer lo que los prisioneros escriben.
Text via: A Thousand Words. Podcast: spoken by Nic Sebastian (of whalesound fame, now seen at Pizzicati of Hosanna). 

Photo: folioline:

asemic integration for j l borges

A Dream
by Jorge Luis Borges 

In a deserted place in Iran there is a not very tall stone tower that has neither door nor window. In the only room (with a dirt floor and shaped like a circle) there is a wooden table and a bench. In that circular cell, a man who looks like me is writing in letters I cannot understand a long poem about a man who in another circular cell is writing a poem about a man who in another circular cell … The process never ends and no one will be able to read what the prisoners write.
(Translated, from the Spanish, by Suzanne Jill Levine.)


Un Sueño
Jorge Luís Borges

En un desierto lugar del Irán hay una no muy alta torre de piedra, sin puerta ni ventana. En la única habitación (cuyo piso es de tierra y que tiene la forma del círculo) hay una mesa de madera y un banco. En esa celda circular, un hombre que se parece a mí escribe en caracteres que no comprendo un largo poema sobre un hombre que en otra celda circular escribe un poema sobre un hombre que en otra celda circular… El proceso no tiene fin y nadie podrá jamás leer lo que los prisioneros escriben.

Text via: A Thousand Words. Podcast: spoken by Nic Sebastian (of whalesound fame, now seen at Pizzicati of Hosanna). 

Photo: folioline:

asemic integration for j l borges

Reverse by Susan Tepper

REVERSE



All night the fan spun riotous
while I lay down in low gear
sleeping through the worst parts

—it was a film in reverse

cats screeched on the fence
the one lone owl
came alive at some hour
—if only to let me 


© Susan Tepper

Picture: Pablo Picasso, Akrobat (1930).

«Once upon a time there was a poor woodcutter who lived with his wife and their daughter and son in a cottage at the edge of a forest. He loved his trade, and worked hard at it. But most of the land belonged to rich ogres, who kept the forests for their own use. …»
(read Ursula Le Guin’s fable for Occupy Wall Street, “Ninety-Nine Weeks”; UKL is also at Occupy Writers.)

wilwheaton:

via reddit

«Once upon a time there was a poor woodcutter who lived with his wife and their daughter and son in a cottage at the edge of a forest. He loved his trade, and worked hard at it. But most of the land belonged to rich ogres, who kept the forests for their own use. …»

(read Ursula Le Guin’s fable for Occupy Wall Street, “Ninety-Nine Weeks”; UKL is also at Occupy Writers.)

wilwheaton:

via reddit

(via mjrobinsonwrites-deactivated201)

TRANS ARTISTS
Artist-in-residence programs and other residency opportunities allow artists to stay and work elsewhere ‘for art’s sake’. They offer conditions that are conducive to creativity and they provide for working facilities, ready to be used by individual artists.

TRANS ARTISTS

Artist-in-residence programs and other residency opportunities allow artists to stay and work elsewhere ‘for art’s sake’. They offer conditions that are conducive to creativity and they provide for working facilities, ready to be used by individual artists.


«Worst fears: That God was not good. That the earth you stood upon shifted, and chasms yawned; that people, falling, clutched one another for help and none was forthcoming. That the basis of all things was evil. That the beauty of the evening, now settling in a yellow glow on the stone of The Cottage barns, the swallows dipping and soaring, a sudden host of butterflies in the long grasses in the foreground, was a lie; a deceitful sheen on which hopeful visions flitted momentarily, and that long, long ago evil had won against good, death over life… in the glow of the sun against the stone walls, as well as in the dancing of butterflies- that in this she had been mocked.»
― Fay Weldon

«Worst fears: That God was not good. That the earth you stood upon shifted, and chasms yawned; that people, falling, clutched one another for help and none was forthcoming. That the basis of all things was evil. That the beauty of the evening, now settling in a yellow glow on the stone of The Cottage barns, the swallows dipping and soaring, a sudden host of butterflies in the long grasses in the foreground, was a lie; a deceitful sheen on which hopeful visions flitted momentarily, and that long, long ago evil had won against good, death over life… in the glow of the sun against the stone walls, as well as in the dancing of butterflies- that in this she had been mocked.»


― Fay Weldon

Peripheral Surveys: A Postmodern Journal of Literature, Art & Humanism http://www.peripheralsurveys.com; Harvard University
also on Twitter.

Peripheral Surveys: A Postmodern Journal of Literature, Art & Humanism ; Harvard University

also on Twitter.