𝔓𝔯𝔬𝔰𝔢
Excerpted from Orlando by Virginia Woolf (1928)
Let us go, then, exploring, this summer morning, when all are adoring the plum blossom and the bee. And humming and hawing, let us ask of the starling (who is a more sociable bird than the lark) what he may think on the brink of the dust bin, whence he picks among the sticks combings of scullion’s hair. What’s life, we ask, leaning on the farmyard gate; Life, Life, Life! cries the bird, as if he had heard, and knew precisely, what we meant by this bothering prying habit of ours of asking questions indoors and out and peeping and picking at daisies as the way is of writers when they don’t know what to say next. Then they come here, says the bird, and ask me what life is; Life, Life, Life!
We trudge on then by the moor path, to the high brow of the wine-blue purple-dark hill, and fling ourselves down there, and dream there and see there a grasshopper, carting back to his home in the hollow, a straw. And he says (if sawings like his can be given a name so sacred and tender) Life’s labour, or so we interpret the whirr of his dust-choked gullet. And the ant agrees and the bees, but if we lie here long enough to ask the moths, when they come at evening, stealing among the paler heather bells, they will breathe in our ears such wild nonsense as one hears from telegraph wires in snow storms; tee hee, haw haw, Laughter, Laughter! the moths say.
Having asked then of man and of bird and the insects, for fish, men tell us, who have lived in green caves, solitary for years to hear them speak, never, never say, and so perhaps know what life is—having asked them all and grown no wiser, but only older and colder (for did we not pray once in a way to wrap up in a book something so hard, so rare, one could swear it was life’s meaning?) back we must go and say straight out to the reader who waits a tiptoe to hear what life is—Alas, we don’t know.
𝔓𝔬𝔢𝔪
“Disintegrating Calculus Problem” by McKenzie Toma (2021)
A dramatic clue lodged in a rockface. Set in a shimmering sound belt slung around the grasses. Collections of numbers signify a large sum, a fatness that cannot be touched. Numbers are heart weight in script. Calculus means a small pebble pushed around maniacally. Binding affection, instead of fear, to largeness.
Ideas are peeled into fours and pinned on the warm corners of earth to flap in a wind. Wind, the product of a swinging axe that splits the sums. This math flowers on the tender back of the knee. An operatic leaf in the tree uses a secret algebra to perforate dense void. The void behaves as a porous slice of rye bread spread thick with salted butter.
Food is braided into the body. On the watchface of the lake, a felled tree trunk keeps protracted time. Circling vaguely like the day does. The circle is dented by the dense tear of a woman without the thing she needs. A loudness about need has a reverse affect. The loud need loses mass. This new thinned need is braided into a story archived in a dark library inaccessible to the public.
The tear weighs the same as a loaf of rye bread. The circle is made of birthday wishes glued together with morning sun mucus. Whatever is hidden is pluckable in time, even sound and meaning. Wind deserves a trophy for revealing this elegantly.
𝔓𝔦𝔠𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔢
Njideka Akunyili Crosby, Breonna Taylor: Vital, Dreaming, 2021
Here’s Njideka’s caption for the IG post:
This painting is in honor of Breonna Taylor, who was killed a year ago today [March 13]—in celebration of her life, and in sadness about her death and her future that was violently taken from her and her loved ones. I wanted to suggest an encompassing perception of who Breonna was as an individual so I filled the painting with many significant details about her. It’s telling that most of these details have to do with her close relationships—a treasured necklace she inherited from her grandmother, a toy her dad crocheted for her, a framed image of Breonna seeing her sister off to prom (for details, see second slide of this post).
I was invited to do this for a project and I’m deeply grateful to have had the opportunity to connect with Breonna’s family and friends. They generously shared photos, stories, etc. Their support and contributions were essential to this piece—Breonna’s mother, Tamika Palmer, selected the photo reference for the painting of Breonna’s face.
While brainstorming the title, the joyful images of Breonna with loved ones kept reminding me of a quote from @kieselaymon’s memoir: “This that black abundance. Y’all don’t even know.” Breonna valued her family and friends and was valued in turn by them; was an integral part of her social circles; and was an individual with, per her social media posts, emotions, fatigue (from working extra shifts), and aspirations (e.g marriage, parenthood). These dreams of hers brought me back to Laymon, who’d recently noted that it was superlatively awful that the police killed Breonna while she was dreaming. Laymon’s opinion then called to mind the “dream deferred” of Langston Hughes’s poem “Harlem.” Eventually I came to the word “vital,” which describes so many facets of Breonna: her importance both to her family and friends and to the national uprising; the fact that she was essential as a healthcare worker during the pandemic; the vital signs she would’ve checked as an EMT; her vital signs that would’ve given out as she succumbed to her wounds; her life-giving (or -sustaining) capacities as an EMT and intentions as a future parent. With all this in mind, I titled the piece Breonna Taylor: Vital, Dreaming.
𝔒𝔫𝔢 𝔗𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤
Support Exodus School of Expression’s Kickstarter campaign! “Exodus is an Art School that creates space for educators that identify as black, indigenous, and people of color to develop, workshop, and publish curriculum. Our goal is to empower and support both educators and students while creating opportunities for developing art practices and radical pedagogy outside academia.” This is a really exciting and important project, and their campaign is all or nothing, so let’s make sure they reach their goal by April 15.
happy days of extended sunshine hours ~ happy crocuses and daffodils ~ happy birdsong and peepers peeping ~ love you, miss you! ♥ Ava