the white lighter

Admittedly, this blog and its maintainer have eclectic tastes. "Eclectic," as you might suspect, is a nice way of saying that there is very little intertwining theme to any of this. If you end up liking some (or most) of the things I like, you might find that wondrous.

I seek to post only items which are credited to the originator, be it fine art, photography, tattoos, or writing. If you see something uncredited, do feel free to point it out to me. Also: ask anything. Call me out if I fuck up. Give props if you feel like it. Ask questions. I like internet interaction.
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For the first time, on the road north of Tampico,
I felt the life sliding out of me,
a drum in the desert, harder and harder to hear.
I was seven, I lay in the car
watching palm trees swirl a sickening pattern past the glass.
My stomach was a melon split wide inside my skin.

‘How do you know if you are going to die?’
I begged my mother. 
We had been traveling for days.
With strange confidence she answered,
‘When you can no longer make a fist.’

Years later I smile to think of that journey,
the borders we must cross separately,
stamped with our unanswerable woes.
I who did not die, who am still living,
still lying in the backseat behind all my questions,
clenching and opening one small hand.

—Naomi Shihab Nye

  1. guidetobitchyrestingface said: I love this woman. She is every bit as excellent a human being as her poems would lead you to believe.
  2. janeanger posted this