A Brown University/Rhode Island School of Design Dual-Degree student (BRDD, 2017), artist, writer, scientist, and explorer of the world dedicated to finding Wondrous things. Art, design, science, literature and the connections between them. For my original artwork see http://arianamakesart.tumblr.com/
In spite of the overwhelming reliability of things,
the wind making rivulets on my sleeve same as window glass,
the same rocks shaped by the same reasons on Mars,
I am like a cricket singing to another sore voice. I hear it,
but faithful to symmetry, I don’t move closer.
It may not be singing to me. Movement may lead to dissolution.
Stars could make up new animals. The dragonfly
might chase the swallow as it did today in warning.
I am living at the edge of light looking out
over water that touches Mexico. The edge of the continent
holds hands with inlets and I mention them over and over
as if no one listened the last time. The common insists.
Lynx and orchids for some. Underwinter life below the ice.
From here I wave to you like polishing the air.“The Common Insists”, from Fragile Acts by Allan Peterson
A review of Allan Peterson’s book of poems, Fragile Acts . I have been deeply inspired by this work recently, and want to spread the word. The book is published by McSweeney’s and can be found on their website.
"Astronauts say their dreams are like earth dreams but the people are floating. Last night when Frances answered her dream phone I was down under the pastry layers of sheets and blue throw. Later she asked did I hear it. No, I had been orbiting myself, misreading a box in Carol’s kitchen “cloudless” for cordless. At night when stars fall on Alabama water goes granular and steps back, dreams improve us with their thick pastels, revisits in tints. Maybe the astronauts called from their cloudless telephones with news from Long Distance:
There were times we thought the ocean was the silent world
despite miles of snow quenched by touch, exchanges of oxygen
and temperature, despite a trillion trillion clattering glass hands
There were times we could hardly hear anything over the sound of day breaking
…how many times red and green lights changed places
how we moved and some of the loose stars movedAllan Peterson, Fragile Acts
We put up with gravity
We worshipped the beautiful among us
We had books of angels They were in them
We misspelled the marvelous from disbelief in spelling
We tried to make permanence out of shoddy materials
We unmade permanece by disavowing history
We said there were nine planets
We took one back for not being big enough
We rethought the decision
We felt partial to buffalo grass
We renamed places for things no longer there
We brought out the worst
We refused in spite of evidence
We spoke too soon.Allan Peterson, Fragile Acts
it is wrong to chide the novel for being fascinated by mysterious coincidences… but it is right to chide man for being blind to such coincidences in his daily life. For he thereby deprives his life a dimension of beauty. Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being
Maps usually display only one layer of information. In most cases, they’re limited to the topography, place names, and traffic infrastructure of a certain region. True, this is very useful, and in all fairness quite often it’s all we ask for. But to reduce cartography to a schematic of accessibility is to exclude the poetry of place.
Or in this case, the poetry and prose of place. This literary map of Britain is composed of the names of 181 British writers, each positioned in parts of the country with which they are associated.
This is not the best navigational tool imaginable. If you want to go from William Wordsworth to Alfred Tennyson, you could pass through Coleridge and Thomas Wyatt, slice through the Brontë sisters, step over Andrew Marvell and finally traverse Philip Larkin. All of which sounds kind of messy.
There will be time
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.“The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” by T.S. Eliot (via innovatus-et-felicem)