"…for these strange pilgrims, ending up in the wastebasket will be like the joy of coming home".
-Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Cartagena de Indias, April 1992
So far, this is my favorite of the tracks I’ve made this year.
“Growing apart doesn’t change the fact that for a long time we grew side by side; our roots will always be tangled. I’m glad for that.”
— Ally Condie, Matched
“Who am I, without exile?” as well as the recurring refrain, “what shall we do without exile?” The questions seek to open up a future under the conditions in which the future has been foreclosed or in which the future can only be thought as repeated subjugation.
Yellow cough on the mountaintop. I say to myself,
“This time, I’m taking it slowly”. For,
This time, six years ago, I was buried in a strange bed
I was buried in a strange sensation
Something like: my head, of helium, of a hot and humid planet
Like: My chest pressed against the ocean floor
Like: Me, a mechanical, churning forward
‘Till I was fished out by a needle in my back
Gasping as I again met the earth
As my body recalled the sensations
Of riptides and setting off into tumultuous seas
Bobbing along an erratic texture of waves
Uncertain departures from ambivalent lands
Carcasse, you tremble
As I hurl you once again against the wall
To appease a fear by facing it head-on
Head-strong to a fault
Laid to rest with my vices
And my heartache, which has her calling me
Voice laced with velvet and milk
The past beckoning us both as if it were a future
“And I cried. For myself. For this woman talkin’ about love. For all the women who have ever stretched their bodies out anticipating civilization and finding ruins.”
— Sonia Sanchez (Homegirls and Handgrenades)
“This is what it is to love an artist: The moon is always rising above your house. The houses of your neighbors look dull and lacking in moonlight. But he is always going away from you. Inside his head there is always something more beautiful.”
— Sarah Ruhl, Eurydice
"I recall all of the dreams I have [about a friend who took his own life in graduate school], still have about him, in which he is mysteriously still alive and living in the walls of my apartment. I discover his lingering presence in this recurring dream, and somehow know that it is my job to get him out, to save him. I never do. I always fail… As much as I like that line ["The art of losing is not hard to master"] I realize that there is something artless and brutal about losing…"
-Jose Esteban Munoz, “Cruising Utopia”
Janie’s first dream was dead, so she became a woman.
Zora Neale Hurston, Their Eyes Were Watching God (1937)
“Beauty is not a very well-balanced thing; it has to be disturbing and uncomfortable.”
— Christian Lacroix