— N’tima (via kevinidentity)
Well, then, suppose my auto-repair man devised questions for an intelligence test. Or suppose a carpenter did, or a farmer, or, indeed, almost anyone but an academician. By every one of those tests, I’d prove myself a moron, and I’d be a moron, too. In a world where I could not use my academic training and my verbal talents but had to do something intricate or hard, working with my hands, I would do poorly. My intelligence, then, is not absolute but is a function of the society I live in and of the fact that a small subsection of that society has managed to foist itself on the rest as an arbiter of such matters.
Consider my auto-repair man, again. He had a habit of telling me jokes whenever he saw me. One time he raised his head from under the automobile hood to say: “Doc, a deaf-and-mute guy went into a hardware store to ask for some nails. He put two fingers together on the counter and made hammering motions with the other hand. The clerk brought him a hammer. He shook his head and pointed to the two fingers he was hammering. The clerk brought him nails. He picked out the sizes he wanted, and left. Well, doc, the next guy who came in was a blind man. He wanted scissors. How do you suppose he asked for them?”
Indulgently, I lifted my right hand and made scissoring motions with my first two fingers. Whereupon my auto-repair man laughed raucously and said, “Why, you dumb jerk, He used his voice and asked for them.” Then he said smugly, “I’ve been trying that on all my customers today.” “Did you catch many?” I asked. “Quite a few,” he said, “but I knew for sure I’d catch you.” “Why is that?” I asked. “Because you’re so goddamned educated, doc, I knew you couldn’t be very smart."
“Chronic illness takes its toll on friendship for several reasons. We become undependable as companions, often having to cancel plans at the last minute if it turns out we can’t get out of bed on the day of a scheduled commitment. And, living in the world of the sick, we gradually have less and less in common with those with whom we worked and played.”
“Knowing these reasons doesn’t make the isolation any less painful an adjustment as we watch people disappear from our lives one by one, some after dozens of years of friendship. On top of this painful personal experience, we also encounter all the ‘healthy living’ advice that tells us that maintaining an active social life enhances both mental and physical health. And so worry is added to isolation.”
— (via iamkarennicole)
Michelle Haimoff, on privilege (via queerthanks)
— Clive Barker (via corophagia)
— Frederick E. Perl (via artistsuffer)
— from Blue Like Jazz
by Donald Miller (via jnontanovan)
We know we are beautiful and we know we are ugly in ourselves. Every poem breaks silence that has to be overcome.
I had to be either completely broken or completely whole to write my poems. I had to learn to feel the ground beneath my feet. I had to write through the colors of love. I had to be able to stand on the corner and see the whole world before me. Once you figure out whether these things are dreams or not, that’s where your true language comes out."
— shit i learned from Willie Perdomo (via banaati)