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188 voters
“The Spine of the Snowman"
On the moon, an old caretaker in faded clothes is holed up in his
pressurized cabin. The fireplace is crackling, casting sparks onto the
instrument panel. His eyes are flickering over the earth,
looking for Illinois,
looking for his hometown, Gnarled Heritage,
until his sight is caught in its chimneys and frosted aerials.
He thinks back on the jeweler's son who skated the pond
behind his house, and the local supermarket with aisles
that curved off like country roads.
Yesterday the robot had been asking him about snowmen.
He asked if they had minds.
No, the caretaker said, but he'd seen one
that had a raccoon burrowed up inside the head.
"Most had a carrot nose, some coal, buttons, and twigs for arms,
but others were more complex.
Once they started to melt, things would rise up
from inside the body. Maybe a gourd, which was an organ,
or a long knobbed stick, which was the spine of the snowman."
The robot shifted uncomfortably in his chair.”
― Actual Air
On the moon, an old caretaker in faded clothes is holed up in his
pressurized cabin. The fireplace is crackling, casting sparks onto the
instrument panel. His eyes are flickering over the earth,
looking for Illinois,
looking for his hometown, Gnarled Heritage,
until his sight is caught in its chimneys and frosted aerials.
He thinks back on the jeweler's son who skated the pond
behind his house, and the local supermarket with aisles
that curved off like country roads.
Yesterday the robot had been asking him about snowmen.
He asked if they had minds.
No, the caretaker said, but he'd seen one
that had a raccoon burrowed up inside the head.
"Most had a carrot nose, some coal, buttons, and twigs for arms,
but others were more complex.
Once they started to melt, things would rise up
from inside the body. Maybe a gourd, which was an organ,
or a long knobbed stick, which was the spine of the snowman."
The robot shifted uncomfortably in his chair.”
― Actual Air
“I want to commit suicide but am afraid someone will think I am crazy.”
―
―
“Grief is visceral, not reasonable: the howling at the center of grief is raw and real. It is love in its most wild form.”
― It's OK That You're Not OK
― It's OK That You're Not OK
“The first study for the man who wants to be a poet is knowledge of himself, complete: he searches for his soul, he inspects it, he puts it to the test, he learns it. As soon as he has learned it, he must cultivate it! I say that one must be a seer, make oneself a seer. The poet becomes a seer through a long, immense, and reasoned derangement of all the senses. All shapes of love suffering, madness. He searches himself, he exhausts all poisons in himself, to keep only the quintessences. Ineffable torture where he needs all his faith, all his superhuman strength, where he becomes among all men the great patient, the great criminal, the great accursed one--and the supreme Scholar! For he reaches the unknown! ....So the poet is actually a thief of Fire!”
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