context providers by lovejoy :)
Rebecca Solnit: Social unrest and famine, superstorms and droughts. Places, species and human beings – none will be spared. Welcome to Occupy Earth
REBECCA SOLNIT IS THE PASTOR OF MY CHURCH
Luce Irigaray, When our lips speak together, 1980
look @this lil angel from heaven
There is a button on the remote control called FAV. You can program your favorite channels. Don’t like the world you live in, choose one closer to the world you live in. I choose the independent film channel and HBO. Neither have news programs as far as I can tell. This is what is great about America—anyone can make these kinds of choices. Instead of the news, HBO has The Sopranos. This week the indie channel is playing and replaying Spaghetti Westerns. Always someone gets shot or pierced through the heart with an arrow, and just before he dies he says, I am not going to make it. Where? Not going to make it where? On some level, maybe, the phrase simply means not going to make it into the next day, hour, minute, or perhaps the next second. Occasionally, you can imagine, it means he is not going to make it to Carson City or Texas or somewhere else out west or to Mexico if he is on the run. On another level always implicit is the sense that it means he is not going to make it to his own death. Perhaps in the back of all our minds is the life expectancy for our generation. Perhaps this expectation lingers there alongside the hours of sleep one should get or the number of times one is meant to chew food—eight hours, twenty chews, and seventy-six years. We are all heading there and not to have that birthday is not to have made it.
— Claudia Rankine
A huge sound waits, bound in the ice,
in the icicle roots, in the buds of snow
on fir branches, in the falling silence
of snow, glittering in the sun, brilliant
as a swarm of gnats, nothing but hovering
wings at midday. With the sun comes noise.
Tongues of ice break free, fall, shatter,
splinter, speak. If I could write the words.
Simple, like turning a page, to say Write
what happened, but this means a return
to the cold place where I am being punished.
Alone to the stony circle where I am frozen,
the empty space, children, mother, father gone,
lover gone away. There grief still sits
and waits, grim, numb, keeping company with
anger. I can smell my anger like sulfur-
struck matches. I wanted what had happened
to be a wall to burn, a window to smash.
At my fist the pieces would sparkle and fall.
All would be changed. I would not be alone.
Instead I have told my story over and over
at parties, on the edge of meetings, my life
clenched in my fist, my eyes brittle as glass.
Ashamed, people turned their faces away
from the woman ranting, asking: Justice,
stretch out your hand. Come down, glittering,
from where you have hidden yourself away.
— Minnie Bruce Pratt
deep (drunk) thoughts w millie m
ANNOUNCING BRAIN FRAME LIT 2!
Join us at the second iteration of Brain Frame Lit, the performative comix reading with a twist. Unlike its mother show, Chicago's favorite motley happening BRAIN FRAME, this event sheds night’s veil for the bright light of day - rendering projections impossible. Readers are challenged to interpret their visual media by alternative means, including a few pages in a booklet distributed for the audience to follow along.
BRAIN FRAME LIT 2 will feature interpretive performance, video games, music history, saliva, poetry, and transparent collaborative process. This event is FREE and ALL AGES.
Beth Hetland and Kyle O’Connell
Nick Williams and Chris Collins
Bring CA$H to purchase comics, posters, and whatever else readers want to hawk. All proceeds go to artists.
4 - 6 pm in SAIC’s Neiman Center, 36 S Wabash
Poster by Matt Davis
i washed my hair twice and it still smells like wood smoke. which is nice, I guess, except i would really like for a thing to be over for once
all things considered, what we look for in other people is perhaps the same gentle deterritorialization we look for in travel.
the temptation of exile in the desire of another and of journey across that desire come to be substituted for one’s own desire and for discovery.
There is no Rescue Mission where it isn’t freezing
from the need that created it. The lost children
distill to pure chemical. Where Good is called No-Tone
it’s the one who cries out who doesn’t get a coat.
The children fuse colors because they don’t want to
separate. Daughters shot off of hydrants who cut
each other in the neck and gut, don’t care
which one of them will end up later in surgery.
And drugged sons pretending to be costumes,
well, they’re not welcome to comprehension either.
Why does a wild child confuse a moon
with a hole in his skin?
One was born soaked in gin.
His first sip was from a bottle of denial.
What can “leave me alone” mean after that?
The system is settled, dimensions fixed.
Another one’s hand feels like a starfish.
Makes me hysterical like the word perestroika.
But they all dig the way the pepper is rosy in the vodka.
It’s verbocity that creates jokers.
Brick and grit are the candy and frosting
where volunteers and teachers write cards that go:
“Donate books that say NOT and NO and poets
who say Urn instead of Oh.”
How do the children convert their troubles
into hip-hop? Dunno—but it’s wonderful.
— Fanny Howe