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"I can never read all the books I want;
I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want.
I can never train myself in all the skills I want.
And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in my life.
And I am horribly limited.â
Feb 11, 2025
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đŚ˘
I am made of urgencies:
my joys are intense;
my sorrows, absolute.
I fill myself with absences,
empty myself of excess.
I do not fit the narrow
I only live in extremes.
Little does not serve me
average does not satisfy me,
naives were never my strength!
All great and small moments,
made with love and tender care,
become eternal memories to me.
Words may win me over for the time being...
But actions either keep me or lose me forever.
I suppose understanding me is not a matter of intelligence but of feeling, of making contact...
Either it reaches you or it doesn't.
-Clarice Lispector
-Clarice Lispector
Jul 10, 2025
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đok last one:
They are always with us, the thin people Meager of dimension as the gray people On a movie-screen. Â They Are unreal, we say: It was only in a movie, it was only In a war making evil headlines when we Were small that they famished and Grew so lean and would not round Out their stalky limbs again though peace Plumped the bellies of the mice Under the meanest table. It was during the long hunger-battle They found their talent to persevere In thinness, to come, later, Into our bad dreams, their menace Not guns, not abuses, But a thin silence. Wrapped in flea-ridded donkey skins, Empty of complaint, forever Drinking vinegar from tin cups: they wore The insufferable nimbus of the lot-drawn Scapegoat. Â But so thin, So weedy a race could not remain in dreams, Could not remain outlandish victims In the contracted country of the head Any more than the old woman in her mud hut could Keep from cutting fat meat Out of the side of the generous moon when it Set foot nightly in her yard Until her knife had pared The moon to a rind of little light. Now the thin people do not obliterate Themselves as the dawn Grayness blues, reddens, and the outline Of the world comes clear and fills with color. They persist in the sunlit room: the wallpaper Frieze of cabbage-roses and cornflowers pales Under their thin-lipped smiles, Their withering kingship. How they prop each other up! We own no wilderness rich and deep enough For stronghold against their stiff Battalions. Â See, how the tree boles flatten And lose their good browns If the thin people simply stand in the forest, Making the world go thin as a wasp's nest And grayer; not even moving their bones.
They are always with us, the thin people Meager of dimension as the gray people On a movie-screen. Â They Are unreal, we say: It was only in a movie, it was only In a war making evil headlines when we Were small that they famished and Grew so lean and would not round Out their stalky limbs again though peace Plumped the bellies of the mice Under the meanest table. It was during the long hunger-battle They found their talent to persevere In thinness, to come, later, Into our bad dreams, their menace Not guns, not abuses, But a thin silence. Wrapped in flea-ridded donkey skins, Empty of complaint, forever Drinking vinegar from tin cups: they wore The insufferable nimbus of the lot-drawn Scapegoat. Â But so thin, So weedy a race could not remain in dreams, Could not remain outlandish victims In the contracted country of the head Any more than the old woman in her mud hut could Keep from cutting fat meat Out of the side of the generous moon when it Set foot nightly in her yard Until her knife had pared The moon to a rind of little light. Now the thin people do not obliterate Themselves as the dawn Grayness blues, reddens, and the outline Of the world comes clear and fills with color. They persist in the sunlit room: the wallpaper Frieze of cabbage-roses and cornflowers pales Under their thin-lipped smiles, Their withering kingship. How they prop each other up! We own no wilderness rich and deep enough For stronghold against their stiff Battalions. Â See, how the tree boles flatten And lose their good browns If the thin people simply stand in the forest, Making the world go thin as a wasp's nest And grayer; not even moving their bones.
Jul 1, 2024
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đnow that iâm free to be myself, who am i?
canât fly, canât run, and see how slowly i walk.
well, i think, i can read books.
âwhatâs that youâre doing?â the green-headed fly shouts as it buzzes past.
i close the book.
well, i can write down words, like these, softly.
âwhatâs that youâre doing?â whispers the wind, pausing in a heap just outside the window.
give me a little time, i say back to its staring, silver face. it doesnât happen all of a sudden, you know.
âdoesnât it?â says the wind, and breaks open, releasing distillation of blue iris.
and my heart panics not to be, as i long to be, the empty, waiting, pure, speechless receptacle.
canât fly, canât run, and see how slowly i walk.
well, i think, i can read books.
âwhatâs that youâre doing?â the green-headed fly shouts as it buzzes past.
i close the book.
well, i can write down words, like these, softly.
âwhatâs that youâre doing?â whispers the wind, pausing in a heap just outside the window.
give me a little time, i say back to its staring, silver face. it doesnât happen all of a sudden, you know.
âdoesnât it?â says the wind, and breaks open, releasing distillation of blue iris.
and my heart panics not to be, as i long to be, the empty, waiting, pure, speechless receptacle.
Jul 1, 2024
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