передышка

вот это моя новая обсессия

"Ведь сегодня-завтра будет вчера, а еще вчера-сегодня было завтра"

 крутая песня

Dolgoruky

Posting this just because this is my 2nd final class for this Dostoevsky grad course.

the feels. it's just too much. i want to read more depressive stuff T_T

On the second part of Подросток (The Adolescent, alternatively translated as A Raw Youth). Arkady Dolgoruky is kinda annoyingly cute. He's the kind of son that I would like to adopt and spray water guns at all day.

Also posting this because this course is likely my last one with Holland teaching - this is my fifth course with her now. I've taken every possible course that she teaches in the department. What an incredible teacher - possibly the best one I've ever had.

But still - 3 more response papers to submit, a prospectus, and a final thesis paper.

My cheesiest corniest essay topic yet - "Dualism in Dostoevsky's Demonology". Expect more suicides, existential crises and a higher body count.  And of course, seizures and tuberculosis.

Not forgetting self-proclaimed fake Jesus(es).

Oh hell.

bodies

well what the flying fuck.

3 posts in a row. with the F-bombs.

why must creative impulses surface at the most untimely moment when I am literally shitting essay papers out of my ass? *sighs*

So I've decided to get back into poetry. No, not those mellow sighs in verse bullshit that are spurred on by ennui when I have nothing better to do with my time.

But really really getting back into it. This verbal war that I trade with those who try to oppress my individuality, telling me that I should pay fines wherever I choose to park my body.

I realized these past few days that I have shit tons of anger within me. It's about time I channel it into this strange language where exiles, non-conformists, and the outcasts dream and wage wars in.

Working on a series of verses titled 'Bodies', inshaAllah. 'Original sin' (see previous post) is the first. Another one is on the way, if my clinically depressed addled brain permits it. Hopefully I'll be more productive throughout this summer.

In the meantime, I'm giving your patriarchal-fascist-imperialist claptrap another multiple middle fingers.

Zero fucks given to misconstrued verses telling me that I belong in hell because of what I have between my legs.

Hooyeah.

introspection

rants of a dying feminist who seeks refuge in her pen, struggling against the tide, so that she won't get diluted under the crushing wave of that imperialist ink.

and also, trying to be happy.

yes. i want to be happy.

i don't know where to seek for help anymore.  :(

well, fuck.

original sin

drawing his finger

at the length of my skirt

it won’t hurt, he says

but they don’t know

as they pass by

that I cradle his sin

between these ravished thighs

with my crimson lips

I unwittingly entice

his darkest vice

but they don’t see

when they pass by

that I pay the price

in these vacant eyes

the curve of my bosom

unknowingly tantalize

his noble guise

but they don’t listen

as they pass by

that I’ve lost my Eden

in these muffled cries

*sighs* I should get back to writing my essays...and yes, the whole Steubenville case just pushed me over the edge this week. 

I need to be that angry poetess again

demise

Let me get this straight.

I am tired. So goddamn tired.

I am tired of putting on a mask. I've been doing that for almost 22 years now. And I am done.

I am tired of struggling and sacrificing myself on an altar, in family, in ambitions, in uncertainty, in sweat, in blood, in tears, in love and in death.

All for a future as uncertain as my mortality.

And what do I get in return?  

More loss. And more and more loss - culminating into a perpetual impasse.

I am done. Done. Done. Done. 

I am done feeling like a wishbone between my ambitions and the ones that I love more than my next breath.

I am done feeling like I am being punished by Fate in return for my aspirations.

Done pretending that everything is all right. Done pretending that I am strong, independent, and solitary.

Yes I am all of those things, but I am also a woman.

And a woman is always in exile in a man's world.

Oh God, the Most Beneficent, this is a cry for help.  For I am already defeated.

I want to be better. I want to get better. I want to feel again. To truly smile again.

To truly see Beauty in all its glory, and in myself.

I am done shedding sorrowful tears without even realizing the torrents that poured forth from my lids have reached the ground.

I am done feeling that everytime I open my eyes the first impulse is just to close them again.  I wish it was laziness and love of sleep.

I just want to forget. Forget and forget and disappear into my dreams and slumber.

And I wonder if someday, perhaps, I might disappear forever, never to wake up again. 

I am done feeling like every bone is broken in my body each time I hear the alarm clock blaring at sunrise.

I am broken.  

But I don't want you to see me broken. 

You don't see me.  You have never seen me. You have never looked close enough into these cold, emotionless eyes, full of tragedy.

No, you don't see me at all. 

Here's a eulogy to my inner demise

i trample the first fallen snow

Я по первому снегу бреду.
В сердце ландыши вспыхнувших сил.
Вечер синею свечкой звезду
Над дорогой моей засветил.

Я не знаю — то свет или мрак?
В чаще ветер поет иль петух?
Может, вместо зимы на полях,
Это лебеди сели на луг.

Хороша ты, о белая гладь!
Греет кровь мою легкий мороз.
Так и хочется к телу прижать
Обнаженные груди берез.

О лесная, дремучая муть!
О веселье оснеженных нив!
Так и хочется руки сомкнуть
Над древесными бедрами ив.

С. Есенин, 1917

It's the fate of geniuses, I think, to die so young, as if nature regretted squandering
an unreasonable amount of wisdom upon a single mind.

Ah, the perfect season of the year for a cuppa Russianness.  Кто не любит зиму?

Finally experienced my first snowfall of the year today. So light, almost invisible.

The heavens cracked open a little
shedding miniscule, pristine tears 
as the sun releases its last breath from the horizon.

And there I stood
By the dim light of the lamposts
At the curve of the road
Wondering,
If this was a latent surge of prudence
Instead of my youth trickling by
With every languid fall
Of those infinitesimal tears.

Это всё