As Seymour Staunchly Trudge Along His Genius Mind Produce A Song Because Poor Seym Has Naught To Do He Thinks He Will Share Song With You.
On Sands I Walk, I Make My Trade I Dig My Sands With Hoof And Spade But This Bleak Land Holds Only Muck My Little Hoove Doth Splash And Sluck Through Endless Goop, Eternal Sludge The Labor Of A Simple Drudge Geroldic Work Must I Endure To Leave This Land For Sandest Pure I Only Seek To Find Way Out I Sniff And Snorch Winds With My Snout But All I Smell Is Foulest Gunk. No Good Smells Here To Grace My Trunk. Still I Press Onwards, Ever On No Night Or Day Here, Dusk Or Dawn This Mire Holds Not The Gift Of Time All Things Stands Still In Glork And Slime. But Tapirs Endures Any Trial With Every Inch And Feet And Mile I Grow More Close To Victory. In Time The Goop Will Yield To Me. So Seymour’s Hooves Thumps Countless Thuds Through Endless Gunk And Boundless Muds To Reach The End, My Only Goal Then I Return To Tapirs Hole Plan Murder Of The Mother Fuck Who Put Seym In This Realm Of Muck.
1x12 "Faith 2x13 "House of the Holy" 4x01 "Lazarus Rising" 4x06 "Yellow Fever" 4x18 "The Monster at the End of This Book" 5x14 "My Bloody Valentine" 5x16 "Dark Side of the Moon" 6x03 "The Third Man" 8x02 "What's up Tiger Mommy" 8x16 "Remember the Titans" 9x01 "I Think I'm Going to Like It Here"
Let’s talk about Dean and faith. Let’s talk about how he grew up being told that angels were watching over him and his brother and how he most probably stopped believing in angels, in good and in heaven when his mother died and along with her all normality, safety and the belief that “good things do happen”.
Let’s talk about how Sam found a faith healer to save Dean from certain death and how Dean back then already didn’t think he deserved to be saved. Let’s talk about how he openly said to Roy that “he isn’t exactly a believer” and Roy just replied “You will be” and how in a way he was right. Let’s talk about Dean and Leyla and how they get to know each other in the first place: Because Sam tells Dean that maybe “it’s time to have a little faith”. Let’s talk about how guilty Dean feels when he realizes that Lelya won’t be saved by Roy and how he tells Leyla, “that he ain’t much of a praying type”, but that he “is going to pray for her” and she tells him “Well, there’s a miracle right there”.
Let’s talk about how Sam has no problems believing in angels and gets really emotional when Dean tells him “that there is no such thing”, that he “believes in reality”, in what he can see and that he cannot believe, in angels or god or destiny, because they never crossed path with any of those things. Oh no, they hadn’t yet, but they would and one particular angel would end up their closest friend… Let’s talk about how in the very episode Sam wants to believe so bad that there is something bigger out there that could save him and he ends up being let down, that Dean for the first time starts taking into account that maybe there is something like “god’s will”.
Let’s talk about when Dean came back from hell and learnt that an angel - Castiel - had rescued him from hell, he would just say “get out of here, there’s no such thing” and Castiel was able to see right through Dean immediately knew that Dean’s problem was that “he has no faith” and that “he doesn’t think he deserves to be saved”.
Let’s talk about how from that moment on and even though Dean continued to think that “angels are dicks”, that maybe Castiel sparked something within him, that has always been there, but has been buried: a tiny flame of faith.
let’s talk about how Dean starts praying. Not really believing in it, but doing it nonetheless and how his prayers are getting answered - by Cas - almost every single time. Let’s talk about how at first Dean was praying jokingly, how he didn’t truly ~mean it and how him saying “I’m not much of a praying type” turned into “I prayed to you Cas, every night”.
Let’s talk about how he starts turning his face towards the sky and asking for help when he is at the end of his rope, despairing, crying. Opening up, making himself vulnerable, not liking it, because “to him it’s the same as begging”, but doing it nonetheless. Let’s talk about how Joshua knew that Dean was losing faith, indicating that Dean did have faith all along, but was never okay with admiting it to himself, because it would be too painful to be let down.
So Dean continues praying, finds solace in it, a weird sort of relief and comfort. Let’s talk about how he prays to keep his brother save and how he prays, because he needs his best friend by his side. No matter whether in purgatory or on earth.
Let’s talk about all of this and more and then let’s talk about how Dean’s newfound faith doesn’t have anything to do with his outlook having changed and him suddenly believing in heaven or an absent god or in angels. No, he doesn’t believe in any of that, doesn’t have any faith in either of those things. No, the tiny bit of hope, the tiny bit of faith he carries within, close to his heart comes down to only one person: Castiel.
I remember writing about hands once,
but I don’t think I speak that language anymore.
I woke up one day,
and the poems on the wall didn’t make sense
and I couldn’t remember if I was angry or
in love or falling apart or if I was supposed to
feel right in this skin or not.
Every week starts off with the same dream of mirrors,
and they are always all empty.
No one talks about the body in the middle
of the room,
because they don’t see it anymore.
I think I miss you,
but I’m not supposed to bring it up.
My mother calls,
and I only know how to say things like
‘wish you were here,’
and 'this city’s so dull without you tonight.’
She tells me it isn’t healthy collecting
ghosts like post cards,
and she wishes her knees were still good
so she could pray for me properly.
It turns out a lot of people talk to themselves
just to make sure their voice isn’t gone,
and it isn’t just me.
I am trying to wipe the loneliness from
the walls in this white tiled bathroom,
but it sticks to every surface like a dirty confession.
One of these days I am going to wake up
in my body again.
I wonder if I’ll finally know how to use it
after spending so much time apart.
After reblogging that John Green vs. my car vs. fire story before I left for New Hampshire today, my inbox slowly filled with John Green related asks. By the time I got to the hotel room just now, I had questions asking what my favorite part of spending time with John was/ what he was like/ did I smell his hair/ were we best friends.
Here’s the thing. Before the race, I didn’t really know John Green other than his books (even though I have some soap his mother made in my shower and that makes me think of her every time I get in there, which seems more intimate than it really is) and obviously I didn’t learn a whole lot about him during the race except that he was someone who could be set on fire and still have a good time, which I guess is more than I know about a lot of people.
So I can’t really answer most of the questions in my inbox.
But I do have a favorite moment. I can answer that one.
Before the race — I was disgustingly late to my own event, because of reasons — we were standing beside the cars behind the scenes. It was freezing, as the readers in the stands will recall. I was skulking around in my old fire suit and holding one of my many helmets under my arm, and he was jittering in his borrowed fire suit holding his borrowed helmet. He was clearly very nervous, or very cold, or very both.
I was thinking what if this isn’t a good show for people who drove an hour to freeze their asses off
He was thinking —
Well, I didn’t know what he was thinking. I was deeply concerned that what he was thinking was I wish I was eating a burger back in Minneapolis right now
Like I said, I didn’t know him. I didn’t know what the arrangement of his faceparts meant at that moment. I just knew that it was mostly my fault that we were standing there. By extension, mostly my fault that readers were freezing in the stands. By extension of that extension, mostly my fault if we failed to be interesting. Then, as we stood there shivering, John told me very seriously that a race car driver had once given him some driving advice. I replied, “Oh, yeah? What’d he say?” And John suddenly grinned and gleefully said “It was a her you’re sexist” and then danced furiously and elvishly in place like some sort of literary gnome fueled by the dark irony.
That was my favorite moment.
I’m not even sure I can explain why it is. It was a night that was great in many ways, and John and other folks there went on to be funny and interesting and memorable in bigger and better ways. I think it’s because … I’d just come from an author event where I was Maggie Stiefvater, author, and I’d been challenged to this race on Twitter by John Green, author. The entire event had taken a lot more planning by a lot more individuals than I’d expected. Everyone kept asking me why I needed my broken car to survive the weekend, and I kept saying author race! author race! think of the readers who are making the trip! Don’t let them down!
But right then, with that utterly stupid elf dance and the giant grin, it suddenly didn’t feel like author-racing-author-at-an-event-that-had-taken-a-lot-of-doing. It just felt like two idiots in cars having a good time.
It is not safe to empty yourself at 2:08 in the morning,
“It is not safe” she said, “to empty yourself out at 2:08 in the morning while the rest of the world sleeps. You should be sleeping.”
Nights like this,
Sleep doesn’t come easy,
especially when the only thing you feel is empty so you need a refill of whatever is open at 2:08 in the morning,
My mother once told me that things that are open passed midnight are never good for girls like me,
I lie here with trembling thumbs tracing your name on my touchscreen phone,
If I call I will tell you that it is by accident,
This has been the tenth accident since our break up and the perfectionist in me does not make mistakes but for you I’ll make one thousand of them,
You will not believe me.
You will ask me about my day,
I do not tell you that I made it out of bed this morning,
I do not tell you I made it out of bed this morning,
I do not tell you I made it out of bed this morning,
I settle for “It was great” then ask “How was yours?”
The sleepiness in your voice will tuck itself away,
You tell me everything from how you finally aced that midterm to how you and your boys celebrated,
I envy the manner in which you are able to back,
To live without restriction of a broken heart,
The silence in my voice makes you stop mid sentence,
I tell you I made it out of bed this morning,
That I ate breakfast this morning,
That I did not cry when my parents asked where you were when I called home,
That I spent that last few weeks unlearning how to love you,
That this revolving door of a relationship keeps me up at 2:08 a.m with a dreading feeling but not enough filling to keep me satisfied until the morning.
My mother once told me that nothing after midnight is good for girls like me,
Now I understand.
Notes: thank you all for the reblogs. So much love! If you want more poems, please let me know:)
The other week I was picking my daughter up from art camp and another mother came up to me to let me know the changes in her health that came about after following our Elimination Diet years ago. She said that she looks and feels so differently now and is not the person she used to be….in a good way. She was beautiful and her skin glowing! One of the things she discovered through the elimination diet process was a severe sensitivity to nightshade vegetables. You know what those are, right? Tomatoes, tomatillos, potatoes, eggplant, spicy peppers (including cayenne pepper), sweet peppers (including paprika), pimentos, and tobacco.
Listen to an Egyptian and Stop Posting about Exodus
Hi. Are you Egyptian? Did you know that there are still Egyptians? Did you know that Egyptians today come from Ancient Egyptians? Did you know that you know its our history and stuff?
Good, just wanted to clear that up. We are not an extinct population. You might have heard about that revolution thing that happened a few years ago.
Egyptians if you didn’t know do not have the sort of race dynamic that exists here. Yes we are an ethnic group, but our skin tones vary, my mother could pass for white if people didn’t concentrate on her Hijab, and Egypt’s second President Sadat was half sudanese from his mother, resulting in a darker complexion. We however all identify as the same people, and don’t have this divisive concept of race as a social construction. Its as if you would consider yourself a different race from someone due to eye color.
For a long time, Europeans tried to use false science to say that the Ancient Egyptians were white, which is why they were so superior, and that with the move of Arabs into the area that the population was diluted and the empire fell. In recent times it has been some sort of idea to propose that the Ancient Egyptians were black, which I have seen a number of times on Tumblr with captions of Egypt saying “Black Excellence”. Once again, the concept of race which is itself not a good thing is trying to make itself relevant where it is not. What is more troubling, as I’ve seen partytilfajr talking about, is that somehow if you are not this skin tone referred to as darker or of color, your Egyptian authenticity, if thats even a thing, is questioned. The number of times I’ve been told I don’t look Egyptian is mind boggling, because we don’t have one look.
I get that its about representation, which is fine. Hollywood is racist, and its annoying that the only time historical accuracy is ever used as an excuse for a casting decision is when its to the benefit of white people. There are many more people of color who don’t get represented, and we get treated like white is default, when it shouldn’t be in our multi-racial place. I mean, a majority of people I know have brown eyes, but I never assume that when I think of a character that their eyes have to be something specific. Actually, the only time I ever did was to assume that Harry Potter’s were green, where his particular skin tone was not explicit. And magically, blue-eyed Daniel Radcliffe was cast. Point is, Yes its a freaking problem, I get it, but stop advancing your cause by speaking for people you do not represent.
Want to talk about Egyptian representational issues? How about when they decided to cast an Egyptian in the Egypt-set Transformers 2, they cast Deep Roy, an Indian born in Kenya, who spoke not a word of Arabic and instead spoke some sort of gibberish. Or how the indie film Cairo Time cast Alexander Siddig as the lead Egyptian character, who by golly, is Sudanese-born lived in the UK forever, and yet had the most authentic and stupid sounding Egyptian/British accent that made me cringe? Actually Lawrence of Arabia wasn’t even going to cast Omar Sheriff in the role of Sherif Ali and was cast as a smaller character until a German, two Frenchmen, and an Indian man either had conflicts or declined because one of them didn’t want to wear brown eye contacts.
So the point is, stop it. I don’t want to hear about something is offensive to Egyptians or misrepresentative unless you are Egyptian. No, being a POC or a black person doesn’t give you that right, and I don’t care who you think looked like what, because Ancient Egypt isn’t a myth. It is real. And when there are actual issues that bother us about representation (And don’t worry, I have a lot beyond this hollywood bullshit) I don’t want our voices to be drowned out by you. Speak for your own experiences, and don’t talk over others. But I doubt that’ll happen, seeing as a post like this won’t get nearly as much attention as all of those posted by non-egyptians.
My girlfriend Rain is 19 and a transwoman. She is currently living at home with her transphobic mother (who is the only one to know her identity) and grandparents who are Jehovah’s Witnesses. On Saturday night she was given an ultimatum - either attend ‘correctional therapy’ or leave for good. I cannot stress enough how important it is for her not to attend that therapy - where they repeatedly tell transgender people that they are inherently evil and wrong. She is neither of those things, she is beautiful and loving and my entire world.
I have set up a fundraiser here to raise extra money for rent and food while we sort this mess so please, give what you can, even if it isn’t a lot. If you can give, please share this post with as many people as you can and on as many platforms as possible, and together we can save my girlfriends life,
The colored version of the Apple Family sketchdump I did a while ago. I was going to post up stuff from the RariTwi AU, but I decided to go ahead and post this up ‘cause A) I wanna draw a couple more things for the Princess Sisters before I reveal them, and B) these are relevant to Bronycon since they are all individual prints, so I figured it’d be good to go ahead and post up stuff for that. c:
So without further ado, here is my headcanon for the Apple Family!
****TL;DReaders may want to leave. I typed more than I originally thought I did. o.o ****
-Agetha Smith (AKA Granny Smith):
The mother of the Apple Siblings’ father, Hard Cider (whom is not seen here) and the matriarch of the family, Granny Smith is one hardy, resilient mare. Having been left alone to take on the care of a large family twice in her lifetime (once after her husband up and left her, the second when her son and daughter-in-law passed away), Granny has mostly seen quite a bit of hardship in her life. Despite that she always keep a positive outlook and is the initial source where the family gets their renowned stubbornness for. She’s among the oldest living ponies in Ponyville and is still kickin’ strong, and it isn’t uncommon for ponies to seek her out for her wisdom.
The huge stallion the residents of Ponyville often calls “Big Mac”, this fella is nothing short of a sweetheart. Despite his large body mass and height, he actually gets most of his looks and temperament from his mother, and is no where near as large as his father was. While he does run the farm along side his sister, he’d much rather allow her to take the reigns and do most of the transactions while he mostly bucks and handles the deliveries. Despite it, he isn’t afraid to tell Applejack what’s on his mind and correct her if he thinks she needs it, nor is it unusual for AJ to seek him out if she needs some advice from her big brother.
After the death of his parents, he and AJ both helped Granny Smith run the farm and raise little Apple Bloom. He’s the one who usually cooks the meals, brushes her mane and ties on her bow, and walks her to school (AJ is usually off to set up their stand in the market around this time). He’s also the one she often goes to when she needs help with math, Granny Smith for help with history, and Applejack with help in learning how to better control her magic.
The honest, compassionate, stubborn workhorse we all know and love. While Granny Smith is the matriarch of the family, it’s Applejack that controls most of the goings on with the family business alongside Big Mac. Large, powerful, 5’2 and several pounds of pure muscle, it isn’t hard to see where she gets most of her physical appearance from (although she looks like an even mix of her mother and father). After the death of her parents AJ and Big Mac took it upon themselves to help run the farm and raise Apple Bloom, and due to this, she’s a mother figure just as much as she is a sister to the little filly. Where Big Mac is the one who helps AB get to school, Applejack is the one who picks her up.
It’s due to her fear of losing another family member that AJ was often overprotective of the tiny filly, but it eventually subsides as she ages… mostly.
- Babs Seed:
Cousin of the Apple Siblings, here she is around the age of 16 (she’s the type who looks older than what she is). While she was shy and awkward as a filly, I think she’d eventually grow to be confident, sarcastic, and somewhat sassy. At the very least, she’ll act like that, but regardless, she’ll never truly drop the habit of covering her flank with her tail when she’s exceptionally nervous. As I’ve said, Babs absolutely loves to visit her cousins in Ponyville; as much as she loves her parents, she feels a little more at home in Ponyville than what she does in Manehatten, where many ponies (at least in school) are uptight, conceded, or just downright rude. She doesn’t have that many friends, but the friends she does have are great to her and are her best buds, the CMC included. I think she and AB get along fantastically well; if one didn’t know any better, they would think the two were sisters.
Her cutie mark is an opened apple blossom with a seed in the middle, as you can see up close here: sta.sh/08mp1dht8nf
The rest of it is actually a tattoo to enhance the cutie mark, so to speak.
The mark stands for the fact that, despite her relative shyness and tendency to get nervous, Babs Seed can flourish wherever she goes. As an older pony on the brink of adulthood and still in the CMC, she also knows how to help young ones flourish and come out of their shells, to “bloom”, so to speak. She makes for a great older sister figure, even though she doesn’t actually have any siblings of her own.
The youngest of the Apple Siblings, AB seen here is around 16, although she looks younger than what she really is. Like her sister, she hits the larger burst of her puberty a little later than others, but once she does she’ll end up growing taller and with lean muscles. She won’t be nearly as built as her older siblings, but she’ll still pack a punch; this is because she took after her mother’s slim build. AB at this point is still pretty reasonable and mature for her age, although she does goof up from time and again. She’s finally able to help out in the fields to buck apples, something she’d been dying for ever since she was a filly, but she also juggles it along with school and still running the CMC with Scoots, Babs, Sweetie Belle, and occasionally Spike. With them being older and already having their cutie marks, their mission had shifted to helping young foals feel more comfortable in their skin and nurturing their talents, rather than doing missions for the sheer sake of hoping to gain a cutie mark (which they finally learned doesn’t work). It’s now more of a Big Sister/Brother, Little Sister/Brother club sort of thing. o3o
AB’s cutie mark is of a heart-shaped apple with a hammer behind it. It actually doesn’t have much to do with building, although she’s relatively good at that. What it does represent is her willingness to take on many things without fear of getting her hooves dirty, to jump headlong into an experiment or discovery confidently and at least give something new a try once. Especially with potions; she’s quite adept with them, thanks to Zecora and Twilight’s tutoring.
And there you have it! Mah headcanonz yush. o3o All of these characters will be on sale as separate prints for Bronycon, however if anyone is interested they may inquire for a poster version of the Apple Family here.
As always, feel free to ask me any questions if you have any, and thanks again for stopping by! C:
Each week, part of my chaplaincy training is to write a reflection
on how it’s going. Here’s week number three. Some identities may be
altered for privacy. All the writings are here.
When they wheeled him in, the doctors said it was already too late. They put him on an iron lung, and the only thing left to do was let his mother decide on his organs.
He was almost twenty years old, good-looking, tall and strapping, face beat up from meth. His mother had given him countless chances and a free bed, but he relapsed every time, back to the muse and to back alley corners and then crawling home again — and his mom finally kicked him out. Shortly after, he was hit by a car. He probably didn’t see it coming. The driver probably didn’t see him, either.
Someone called for an ambulance and left him there.
The only thing the hospital could do was stuff him full of tubes to keep him breathing. There was no brain activity. His head was held by a neck brace the size of an oven; his bed was a mess of angry plastic tentacles, sprouting and twisting in veiny stubborn circles. I could still tell that underneath all that life support, he was a handsome kid.
In the waiting room, his mom kept blaming herself. “Just one more time, I could’ve let him stay. He wasn’t getting better, I mean what could I do? I couldn’t do it anymore, his eyes were just gone, he was already gone. But I could’ve one more time.”
We brought her up to ICU. She saw her son and folded in half. I had to look away. It was too much to bear, to see the love of a mother who had to say goodbye to her child, and not even really. She stroked his chest, rising with the tide of the respirator; she wept over his tubes and his arms and his face; she finally grabbed at his shirt and kept saying, Sorry, I’m sorry, I would one more time, I would. It had ended so badly. They had said terrible words. She thought she was doing the right thing. How could she know? She loved him enough to set him free, but only love could hurt this much.
I was back and forth in the ICU all day. The mother was still there each time, sometimes crying, sometimes staring at the wall.
The rest of the family trickled in. We sat them down to go over the body-release and cremation. I hated this part. The form asked, “Was he in college? Was he working? Was he in the military?” The mother replied softly: No, no, no. She fell more and more into the seat and her look just killed me. She had wished for something better, every dream she had prayed over her womb to every extended hand for a prodigal son come home, and every part of me wanted to scream her son awake and reach back to one-more-time and mend these shards somehow, but I had seen into the irrevocable darkness that life is unfair and time is relentless and pain is the price you must pay to love so deeply, and still, we have to try anyway, and love anyway, and dream anyway, to the best we know how, whether things will or won’t work out, and we learn to make something of the pieces.
After eleven hours, the mother finally decided.
“Unplug it. Use every organ. It’s okay. I’m okay.”
The family, one by one, said their goodbyes. We prayed. We prayed for the family to have room to grieve, to weep, to let go of blame. We prayed for the organs to be used wisely, that it might be a small hint of good in the middle of so much hurt. We prayed for God’s mercy to receive a soul who had never known peace in this life, but would know it now. We prayed that he would finally be set free.
I told him I was sorry. I said goodbye. I wish I could have one more time.
So yesterday I decided to talk to my dad, one on one, about my vocation. For those that don’t know, I’ve been discerning the Discalced Carmelites for nearly two years and my parents don’t like it. At all.
He said a lot of things that break my heart, but I’m not gonna put them all here. Basically he’s not letting me visit (I’m still a minor) the monastery because it’ll be more “brain-washing”. He doesn’t want me to enter. He thinks I’m throwing my life away, wasting everything I’ve worked for, will be turning my back on the world, not doing any good or helping people, etc. He even called it “nun prison”.
He and my mother can’t reconcile it in their hearts and beg me to rethink it. Doesn’t matter if I never get married or never have kids. Anything but become a Carmlelite, where I won’t have any “freedom” to go anywhere, do anything, see anybody.
I know very well the power of the prayers of the Catholic Tumblr community. So I’m here before you once more, as your sister, begging you to pray that their hearts are softened, that they can come to understand what I’m called to, and that they see the joy it will bring me and them.
From Awakening Osiris, The Egyptian Book of the Dead:
45. Becoming the Child
In seafoam, in swirlings and imaginings I am fish, tadpole, crocodile. I am an urge, an idea, a portent of impossible dreams. I lie between heaven and earth, between goodness and evil, patience and explosion. I am innocent and rosy as dawn. I sleep with my finger in my mouth, the cord of life curled beside my ear. Like a child in its mother’s belly, I am with you but not among you. I know no ending for I have no beginning. I have always been here, a child in the silence of things, ready to wake at any moment. I am possibility. What I hate is ignorance, smallness of imagination, the eye that sees no farther than its own lashes. All things are possible. When we speak in anger, anger will be our truth. When we speak in love and live by love, truth in love will be our comfort. Who you are is limited only by who you think you are. I am the word before its utterance. I am thought and desire. I am a child in the throat of god. Things are possible—joy and sorrow, men and women, children. Someday I’ll imagine myself a different man, build bone and make flesh around him. I am with you but a moment for an eternity. I am the name of everything. I’ve dreamed the nightmare a hundred times, that old revulsion of bone and flesh, waking in sweat, in a headlong rush toward the world, into the cool certainty of fires that burn in sudden stars, the heat in the body. That I am precludes my never having been. What I know was given to me to say. There is more. There are words that exist only in the mind of heaven, a bright knowing, a clear moment of being. When you know it, you know yourself well enough. You will not speak. I am a child resting in love, in the pleasure of clouds. I read the book of the river. I hold the magic of stones and trees. I find god in my fingers and in the wings of birds. I am my delight, creator of my destiny. It is not vanity. There are those who live in the boundaries of guilt and fear, the limits of imagination. They believe limitation is the world. You can not change them. There is work of your own to do. You will never reach the end of your own becoming, the madness of creation, the joy of existence. Dance in the moment. Reach down and pull up song. Spin and chant and forget the sorrow that we are flesh on bone. I return to the rhythm of water, to the dark song I was in my mother’s belly. We were gods then and we knew it. We are gods now dancing in whirling darkness, spitting flame like stars in the night. In the womb before the world began, I was a child among other gods and children who were, or may be, or might have been. There in the dark when we could not see each other’s faces, we agreed with one mind to be born, to separate, to forget the pact we made that we might learn the secrets of our fraternity. We agreed to know sorrow in exchange for joy, to know death in exchange for life. We were dark seeds of possibility whispering. Then one by one we entered alone. We walked on our legs, and as we had said, we passed in well-lit streets without recognizing each other; yet we were gods sheathed in flesh, the multitude of a single spirit. Gods live even in darkness, in the world above your heads, in the crevices of rocks, in the open palms of strangers. I am a child, the seed in everything, the rhythm of flowers, the old story that lingers. Among cattle and fruit sellers, I am air. I am love hidden in a shy maiden’s gown. I am the name of things. I am the dream changing before your eyes. I am my body, a house for blood and breath. I am a man on earth and a god in heaven. While I travel the deserts in frail form, while I grow old and weep and die, I live always as a child inside the body of truth, a blue egg that rocks in the storm but never breaks. I sleep in peace in my mother’s lap, a child mesmerized by sunlight on the river. My soul is swallowed up by god. Out of chaos came the light. Out of the will came life.
i wanna make my parents so happy like i want my mother to look at all of us and know we are all joyful and doing what we love and living lives of integrity and i want my father to be stress free and to go back to italy because when we lived there he never wore shoes and was so brown and happy and would show me so many things and here is he is like a grey slip of paper some days. because he works so hard so that i can live the way i do. and i want so much for my parents, and i fear that i will never be financially able to provide it.
Rory: I said this is unbelievable. […] Because I didn’t even want to be here in the first place. […] Things were going fine, my grades were good, I joined the paper. My routine was down. […] And I have friends. I have a steady boyfriend, and my mother and I are freakishly linked, and Lane and I have been best friends since kindergarten. But you don’t see that because I don’t live in this town, and if you don’t see it then it must not be true. And you call me in here to lecture me because I’d rather read at lunch then endlessly discuss the euthanasia of homecoming. […] You told me and you told my mother that I needed to socialize, and if I didn’t, it would be frowned upon and it would hurt me getting into Harvard. […] So, I did it. I sat down at a table, a random table. […] And the next thing I know, I’m being pulled out of my bed in the middle of the night and I’m blindfolded and then before I know it, I end up here with the Ya-Ya Sisterhood, reciting poetry and lighting candles, and now I’m gonna be suspended because I was trying to do what you told me? What’s fair about that?