I first understood Silence = Death when I was 12, and the truth in that has never diminished.

Finding the right words to break the silence can seem impossible; but the one that’s broken tyranny, and toppled the machinery of hate throughout history is the same:

“No.”

#resist

As I accumulate a spotty and inconstant history of posts on this app—here is a pandemic video I forgot I’d made—when it was just me and him in the apartment for 14 months—straight.

Pittsburgh? I asked the universe what it knew of this. Who sends mails me letter in quality, heavy gauge paper from Pittsburgh? I have been nice to anyone from there.

But I was wrong! Thank you, @the-engine-idling.bsky.social for the lovely stickers, and the card.

This is Lupi. He is not my dog. But my sister rescued him in Costa Rica, after he was run over by a motorcycle. He has been fine for years, but still wants your sympathy . . . all. the. time.

I’ve never been a huge fan of the mid-day sun—but, feeling like I’ve been confined to my desk next to the air conditioner for a week, I’ve started to quiz myself: where have I been happy in uncomfortably hot, sunny places?

Oh right—Rome. If anyone buys me a ticket, I promise to send pretty photos.

In a way, encountering keen, unfamiliar words at a time of incalculable grief can be a real gift—the knife twists, and silence can do all the existential crying for you.

On the other hand, how about I pretend I din’t have feelings—and poetry can go jump in the fucking lake.

And then, one day, the poet woke up and it was Pride—

On a separate note, when the husband said that he’d be taking up baking as a hobby, I didn’t fully appreciate that by “baking” he meant “become a European pastry chef”—not a problem, per se—but it get’s hot in the summer, and I don’t like exercise anymore.

I may not be the most civic minded instigator or sound-byte worthy user of social media—but I do live with this guy, and cats that look they’re going to murder someone directly after a photoshoot never go out of style.

This early in the game, I feel like it’s confusing the issue, but APROSEXIA LIT has an account of its own, and needs some love to keep to itself:

@aprosexia.bsky.social

If poets are angst ridden, it’s because of things like leaving them to greet the dawn without access to a vice. I was willing to accept coffee.

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