infinity on repeat

"It is the imagination pressing back against the pressure of reality. It seems, in the last analysis, to have something to do with our self-preservation; and that, no doubt, is why the expression of it, the sound of its words, helps us to live our lives.”

Tag: Arts

Rumpelstiltskin said all magic comes with a price

When I first attempted fiction writing I composed the most elaborate, fantastical allegories without any inhibition. They were full of clichés and dull allusions, but I gave them every bit of soul and care that I could muster. My first story was about a girl who I never named, instead solely referring to her as She.

She lived in a sanity warehouse, a factory that assembled sterile minds. The walls were white, the floors damp gray, the rooms shaped like cubic cells. Every morning her nurse brought the pillsː two blue rounds, one white ladder, one orange capsule. She had been taking them since her first day in the place, a day she could scarcely remember anymore. It had been at least a year, she thought. Her recollection of life outside the factory varied by day; at times she had vivid flashes of her former existence, images of her body moving through tasks, places, faces, crowds. She did not know what her prior occupation was, she knew only of her life as it surreptitiously looped around her cell.

I can hear someone shrieking from where I sit. A boy is crying in the library, two girls are patting his back. He just sat in the desk behind me. He is saying, Oh God. He is sobbing, wheezing, hysterical. Does he know that I am right in front of him? A girl just walked over toward him laughing a little, telling him he is okay, not to cry, that she can’t deal with emotions. She is saying “you’re fine dude, you just got drunk and wrapped up in the drama.” My sympathy evaporated upon the mention of the word “drunk.” This is the library. There is nowhere else to go for quiet focused solace— which is slowly becoming a pipe dream, even here.

Situations like that make me ache with loneliness, not for myself so much as for the entire world. No one on this earth will ever know the absence of loneliness. But now my patience is plummeting, the same group is laughing now, louder and louder, playground noises. What ever happened to recess anyways? Is recess in adult life available only by the bottle? We have robbed our own lives of any semblance to play, and left now to our closest imitationː a chemical elixir. How ugly how fast.

She wandered out of her cell one day, leaving her silhouette behind. Similar to how twins might play tricks on their teachers by trading places for a day. That has been one of the greatest regrets pushing my life forward through the years ː that I was born twinless, that I sprouted in complete form, that I wasn’t granted a carbon copy for reference. I want something that looks almost exactly like I do, looks like and looks at—
                 looking looks for a counterbalance ː tandem, center weight, pull of poles.

We could have done so much more in two bodies. But without a twin I have been forced to become a Rumplestiltskin of forms.

But all at once the door opened, and in came a little man,
and said, good evening, mistress miller, why are you crying so.
Alas, answered the girl, I have to spin straw into gold, and I do
not know how to do it.  What will you give me, said the
manikin, if I do it for you.  My necklace, said the girl.  The
little man took the necklace, seated himself in front of the
wheel, and whirr, whirr, whirr, three turns, and the reel was
full, then he put another on, and whirr, whirr, whirr, three times
round, and the second was full too.  And so it went on until
the morning, when all the straw was spun, and all the reels
were full of gold.

Who is the girl and who is the strange creature? I hear the whirr, am I spinning the gold? How will I ever know?

 

simone de beauvoir i’ll always luv u

So one time…… I ran around Paris until I found Cafe les Deux Magots, where Beauvoir and Sartre used to sit and write everyday. I suppose that was the closest I will ever come to pilgrimage.

“I don’t know. What is it that one evaluates? The noise, the silence, posterity, the number of readers, the absence of readers, the importance at a given time? I think that people will read me for some time. At least, that’s what my readers tell me. I’ve contributed something to the discussion of women’s problems. I know I have from the letters I receive. As for the literary quality of my work, in the strict sense of the word, I haven’t the slightest idea.”
~Interview with Beauvoir at the Paris Review

my teacher died/ even the frying pan cried

rip maurice sendak, king of the wild things.



And he sailed off through night and day
and in and out of weeks
and almost over a year
to where the wild things are.

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i promise i swear, i will never turn ten