When Wanda bought the house, she didn’t imagine that anyone in the community would recognize that she and Lynn were queer.
The baby had come from a place none of us could remember. Our grandmother was headed there.
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When Wanda bought the house, she didn’t imagine that anyone in the community would recognize that she and Lynn were queer.
The baby had come from a place none of us could remember. Our grandmother was headed there.
The author of Mother of God discusses the limitations of realism, Frank Bidart, and the anguished duality of shame.
Standing in the wreckage of these spaces unlocks a sensation people often crave, but can’t name.
It’s an imagined past, a pastoral imaginary, an alternate timeline in the multiverse.
Modern music streaming services are rigorously quality-controlled from the instant the songs are uploaded by labels and artists—there’s no longer any room for happy accidents.
It’s funny, knowing that, if I were living in one of my favourite minds, I might want to turn it off.
It’s hard to shake the notion that the defuturing of the future suggests something larger: not that the future is now, but that the future may never get past now.
Whatever happens over the next four years, remember that you didn’t bring this abuse upon yourself. You don’t deserve it. If your needs aren’t being met, it’s not because you have too many needs.
No one wants a mewling essay full of apologies. It’s almost an act of selfishness—to share an apology reflects weakness. Trump knew it all along: there's no social capital in culpability.