Reversible in theory

From one of my favorite reads so far:

And so Eve ate from the Tree and knew that she was a naked child of divergent universes. She took the fruit to Adam and said unto him: There are things you do not understand, but I do. And Adam was angry and snatched the fruit from Eve and devoured it, and from beyond the cosmic background radiation, God sighed, for all physical processes are reversible in theory – but not in practice. Man and Woman were expelled from the Garden, and a flaming sword was placed through the Gate of Eden as a reminder that the universe would now contract and someday perish in a conflagration of entropy, only to increase in density, burst, and expand again, causing further high-velocity redistributions of serpents, fruit, men, women, helium-3, lithium-7, deuterium, and helium-4.

– Catherynne Valente, “Thirteen Ways of Looking at Space/Time”

what we feel most has no name

The Forgotten Dialect Of The Heart
Jack Gilbert

How astonishing it is that language can almost mean,
and frightening that it does not quite.  Love, we say,
God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write, and the words
get it all wrong.  We say bread and it means according
to which nation.  French has no word for home,
and we have no word for strict pleasure.  A people
in northern India is dying out because their ancient
tongue has no words for endearment.  I dream of lost
vocabularies that might express some of what
we no longer can.  Maybe the Etruscan texts would
finally explain why the couples on their tombs
are smiling.  And maybe not.  When the thousands
of mysterious Sumerian tablets were translated,
they seemed to be business records.  But what if they
are poems or psalms?  My joy is the same as twelve
Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light.
O Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper,
as grand as ripe barley lithe under the wind's labor.
Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts
of long-fibered Egyptian cotton.  My love is a hundred
pitchers of honey.  Shiploads of thuya are what
my body wants to say to your body.  Giraffes are this
desire in the dark.  Perhaps the spiral Minoan script
is not laguage but a map.  What we feel most has
no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses, and birds.


Jack Gilbert Dies at 87

Frida Kahlo to Marty McConnell

by Marty McConnell
leaving is not enough; you must
stay gone. train your heart
like a dog. change the locks
even on the house he’s never
visited. you lucky, lucky girl.
you have an apartment
just your size. a bathtub
full of tea. a heart the size
of Arizona, but not nearly
so arid. don’t wish away
your cracked past, your
crooked toes, your problems
are papier mache puppets
you made or bought because the vendor
at the market was so compelling you just
had to have them. you had to have him.
and you did. and now you pull down
the bridge between your houses,
you make him call before
he visits, you take a lover
for granted, you take
a lover who looks at you
like maybe you are magic. make
the first bottle you consume
in this place a relic. place it
on whatever altar you fashion
with a knife and five cranberries.
don’t lose too much weight.
stupid girls are always trying
to disappear as revenge. and you
are not stupid. you loved a man
with more hands than a parade
of beggars, and here you stand. heart
like a four-poster bed. heart like a canvas.
heart leaking something so strong
they can smell it in the street.

Rest in Peace, dear sir.

What the news said yesterday.

I was one of those kids who actually got into the wild rumpus late- as in, really late. My first encounter with Sendak’s work was in (get this-) third year college when my philosophy professor at that time, read out Where The Wild Things Are to our class. Yep.

Well, dear sir, I’m sure you’re in a wonderful, wild place now.

I saw this .gif set just now from the Tumblr-folk and it made me smile. Hehe.

Other stuff, or, my reading list right now: