New England: land of “every conversation relies on your ability to piece together someone’s life/schedule/mood through conjecture and then meet their pretty much unstated expectations.”
I am ten texts deep in scheduling a meeting and we have not specified a time or place.
When did this region equate “polite behavior” to “opaque passive word salad”?
oh, sometime. you know. then.
OUR SORCERY IS STRONG.
happy birthday baby, i made you a mixtape. it’s of a bunch of wolf sounds i found on the internet. i couldn’t find 320kpbs for all of them so i hope 192 is okay. i love you so much
"Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air."
"Academia rewards social scientists who prohibit the spread of knowledge more than those who share it. From paywalls to jargon to a tacit moratorium on social media, academics build careers through public disengagement. They should not be surprised when the public then fails to see the relevance of their work."
"Even at the Mysteries, he could never get warm,
crowded into the dark with the kist and the serpent,
the smart of pennyroyal on his tongue like a word
he had forgotten to say. Like a frostline in the soil,
the plunge of a colder sea … The sun silvered his hair
like olive leaves, the dry months burnt him browner
than Attic earth; the thin snows fell on Parnes
and he shivered even in the white arms of his bride,
the barley-plaited girl who sang round the well-head
like his elder sisters so long ago, the fallow year
a wanderer sowed blessings in the Eleusinian fields
and burnished him with her touch, an archaic mask
of gold. Like the daimon of his house, the glittering
awn, and still the old nightmare flickered up in him
at an ember’s breath: the fire that smelt of incense,
the shapes falling like a handful of tears, of poppies
and mare’s tails, of a girl’s face and stalks of corn
that glowed like scepters in the unwithering flames.
He had rested so soundly in her old woman’s arms,
his child’s length measured in her lap. The hall
in the shadows that leapt like stooks, the sparks
chaff-tumbling up about them, threshings of godhead,
her seedhead crown. And his mother’s hands dragging him
like a brand from the cinders, blackened, beaten out:
cold running in his veins like time. Yet imperishable
honor will be on him always. A garland of myrtle
at a hero’s tomb, the north wind and the autumn rain
like aulos and kithara for the stitching of songs
he would shatter to the winds if his wife’s arms
would warm him, his children’s bones not shine
like a killing frost, if he could wake a serf,
a slave, memoryless as a ghost, the king’s tall son
and fair as harvest, goddess-dandled, lucky, lost."