poetry is a naked woman, a naked man, and the distance between them.
we run when we’re scared, we run when we’re ecstatic, we run away from our problems and run around for a good time. and when things look worst, we run the most.
But thanks to Dean Smith, and now Roy Williams, North Carolina has essentially become a self-sustaining nexus of hoops desire. It’s the argyle uniforms. It’s the clean Carolina blue. It’s the UNC basketball museum, with its artifacts and gravitas. It’s the perhaps-imagined (but does that make it any less real?) impression one feels in the Dean Dome that there is something special about Carolina basketball, something innate and hard to define.
Racism isn’t born, folks. It’s taught. I have a 2-year-old son. Know what he hates? Naps. End of list.
Denis Leary, 1992
[love this. replace racism with any of the many hates and it’s still relevant.]
Any civilization able to intercept Voyager in the depths of interstellar space…would know far more science than we do. Instead, we wanted to tell those other beings something about what seems unique about ourselves…Although the recipients may not know any languages of the Earth, we included greetings in sixty human tongues, as well as the hellos of the humpback whales. We sent photographs of humans from all over the world caring for one another, learning, fabricating tools and art and responding to challenges. There is an hour and a half of exquisite music from many cultures, some of it expressing our sense of cosmic loneliness, our wish to end our isolation, our longing to make contact with other beings in the Cosmos. And we have sent recordings of the sounds that would have been heard on our planet from the earliest days before the origin of life to the evolution of the human species and our most recent burgeoning technology. It is, as much as the sounds of any baleen whale, a love song cast upon the vastness of the deep. Many, perhaps most, of our messages will be indecipherable. But we have sent them because it is important to try.
one day you fall for this boy. he touches you with his fingers and he burns you with his mouth. it hurts when you look at him and it hurts when you don’t. and it feels like someone’s cut you open with a jagged piece of glass.
If I could tell the story in words, I wouldn’t need to lug around a camera.
on nights so loveless, love,
I hope it made you feel good,
knowing how much I adored you.