erica lorraine scheidt

i was thinking

about adolescence and thought of the wilderness act: 

“A wilderness, in contrast with those areas where man and his own works dominate the landscape, is hereby recognized as an area where the earth and its community of life are untrammeled by man, where man himself is a visitor who does not remain.”

could it be that young people, young men and women, deserve to be untrammeled by adults? by our narratives? our intentions? our assumptions?

by denis johnson via stephen elliott via marie howe

NOW

Whatever the foghorns are 
the voices of feels terrible 
tonight, just terrible, and here 
by the window that looks out 
on the waters but is blind, I 
have been sleeping, 
but I am awake now. 
In the night I watch 
how the little lights 
of boats come out 
to us and are lost again 
in the fog wallowing on the sea: 
it is as if in that absence not many 
but a single light gestures 
and diminishes like meaning 
through speech, negligently 
adance to the calling 
of the foghorns like the one 
note they lend from voice 
to voice. And so does my life tremble, 
and when I turn from the window 
and from the sea’s grief, the room 
fills with a dark 
lushness and foliage nobody 
will ever be plucked from, 
and the feelings I have 
must never be given speech. 
Darkness, my name is Denis Johnson, 
and I am almost ready to 
confess it is not some awful 
misunderstanding that has carried 
me here, my arms full of the ghosts 
of flowers, to kneel at your feet; 
almost ready to see 
how at each turning I chose 
this way, this place and this verging 
of ocean on earth with the horns claiming 
I can keep on if only I step 
where I cannot breathe. My coat 
is leprosy and my dagger 
is a lie; must I 
shed them? Do I have 
to end my life in order 
to begin? Music, you are light. 
Agony, you are only what tips 
me from moment to moment, light 
to light and word to word, 
and I am here at the waters 
because in this space between spaces 
where nothing speaks, 
I am what it says.

stephen elliott says in the daily rumpus: p.s. Marie mentioned this poem from The Incognito Lounge by Denis Johnson and I went and found the poem. Apparently Johnson wrote it while a fellow in Provincetown. So here you go. Isn’t it interesting how something so dark can bleed and breathe with so much life. Love love.

This weekend I saw the Nicholas Galanin's work at the current Frye exhibit, Your Feast Has Ended: Maikoiyo Alley-Barnes, Nicholas Galanin, and Nep Sidhu in Seattle. This piece, “Things are Looking Native, Native’s Looking Whiter,” was one of them. In the exhibit, he says this:

"… I [also] look at this piece in cultural terms—mainstream society often looks at Indigenous or Native American art through a romantic lens, not allowing a culture, like my Tlingit community, room for creative sovereign growth. "

And wondered: is this how we look at girls? So fetishized or romanticized or sexualized, that they have no room for sovereign expression?

This weekend I saw the Nicholas Galanin's work at the current Frye exhibit, Your Feast Has Ended: Maikoiyo Alley-Barnes, Nicholas Galanin, and Nep Sidhu in Seattle. This piece, “Things are Looking Native, Native’s Looking Whiter,” was one of them. In the exhibit, he says this:

"… I [also] look at this piece in cultural terms—mainstream society often looks at Indigenous or Native American art through a romantic lens, not allowing a culture, like my Tlingit community, room for creative sovereign growth. "

And wondered: is this how we look at girls? So fetishized or romanticized or sexualized, that they have no room for sovereign expression?

usesforboys:

Feminism is hearing your pain and your struggle in another woman’s voice and suddenly realizing there’s nothing wrong with you and nothing wrong with her, but something wrong with the world trying to make you think there is. Shelby Knox

— I am so grateful to Jamia Wilson for introducing me to Shelby Knox.

let me tell you one thing

Let me tell you one thing about why writers write: had I known the answer to any of these questions I would never have needed to write a novel. from Why I Write by Joan Didion

So the gf met a guy in DC who works in public transit and she starts talking about putting summer lunches on commuter lines to make it easier for working parents, right. Because she has a one track mind: making sure kids have access to healthy food in the summer.