5 links and a poem:
Haunted by this beautiful post by
This article on the work being done to document and recover the history of Indian Boarding Schools—is a devastating, necessary read, and is what the work of confronting history really is about—understanding the world we inherited and the urgent need for justice—and always, always, land back.
Also, if you haven’t watched the episode of Reservation Dogs this season on boarding schools and justice, please don’t miss it—it’s a hard watch, and also a fantastic, thoughtful, amazing episode, as they all are.
I’ve always been obsessed with books as artifacts, as material objects—this post explores why the physical quality of antique manuscripts, particularly, can be so meaningful.
Also loved this article exploring Tolkien’s work as a metafiction.
Finally, sharing these poems by Ginczanka are giving me life and fire, until my copy of her book arrives:
No one will shackle me.
Sin out of suede and bats
has hung in the attics of terror, its half-mouse snout upside-down—
At dusk I’ll slip out the tower, escape the fortified tower,
through slash and slice of wasp,
barbed wire of poisoned herb—
Heavily they’ll rise through the rubble: the commandments’ crowded crags,
the twenty hells of the Vedas,
the fanatical night will threaten to stone me with stars,
I’ll slip through their fingers like mercury.
Nothing will shackle me.
If you become a wolf, I’ll turn into a wagtail—
if you be eagle, I’ll be winding wonders——
with impenetrable intent I’ll prevent your every turn.
The world won’t shackle me,
my darling—my love—my dear
unless I myself desire
Asscension of the Earth
Pull down, tear down, crush clouds
like a flabby cicatrix –
Let the sun melt you,
burn you with heat –
Pull down, tear off your faces indifferently hypocritical –
shriek your hatred rather cruelly –
spread out, destroy,
bite the world to a pulp,
unload yourselves in vortices and swirl as whirlpools,
all, everything suppressed in blood, burst into foam,
and tear up the rosary of prayers,
and weave in sincerity like a dance,
and in the froth of the froth,
with what life has given you,
in your own fire, burn yourselves
and with your truth infect
The fat earth is most fertile.
It will whistle for eternity,
…will throw a track around the sun..,
and begin to shake the stars –
it will rage free:
river, forest and field
and in the fires of its own blood –
– – fall down in worship to God –
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
(slavery – humility of love!)
the quietest, – the simplest, –
6 September 1933
"I’ve stood up because I can’t contain the energy the poems put in me." Ò Tuama
Yes to that!
On Land Back, this was a small bright spot in the last week: https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2023/sep/03/native-tribe-upper-sioux-agency-us-dakota-war
Though the line "where does it end?" from a white settler pissed me off. Maybe it ends when all the land is back, my dude? Maybe white people should have been asking that question of themselves many generations ago.