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A point of transition, or when lined up, many points, creating a line, a curve, a crossing, a passage.

I write the column "On the Trail of Mary Jane" for McSweeney's Internet Tendency. I have essays, interviews, and fiction in such places as the New York Times, The Nervous Breakdown, The Rumpus, Brain, Child, PANK, The Coachella Review, Specter Magazine, and more. My book, EXCAVATION: A MEMOIR, will be published by Future Tense Books in summer 2014. HOLLYWOOD NOTEBOOK will be published by Writ Large Press in fall 2014. You can also visit me somewhat more statically at www.wendyortiz.com.
magictransistor:

. Nezahualcoyotl from The Codex Ixtlilxochitl

magictransistor:

. Nezahualcoyotl from The Codex Ixtlilxochitl

(via wearethesecretcity)

4 hours ago
49 notes
All My Pretty Ones by Anne Sexton : The Poetry Foundation
My God, father, each Christmas Day   
with your blood, will I drink down your glass   
of wine? The diary of your hurly-burly years   
goes to my shelf to wait for my age to pass.   
Only in this hoarded span will love persevere.   
Whether you are pretty or not, I outlive you,
bend down my strange face to yours and forgive you.
1 day ago
0 notes
Leave the dishes.
Let the celery rot in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator
and an earthen scum harden on the kitchen floor.
Leave the black crumbs in the bottom of the toaster.
Throw the cracked bowl out and don’t patch the cup.
Don’t patch anything. Don’t mend. Buy safety pins.
Don’t even sew on a button.
Let the wind have its way, then the earth
that invades as dust and then the dead
foaming up in gray rolls underneath the couch.
Talk to them. Tell them they are welcome.
Don’t keep all the pieces of the puzzles
or the doll’s tiny shoes in pairs, don’t worry
who uses whose toothbrush or if anything
matches, at all.
Except one word to another. Or a thought.
Pursue the authentic — decide first
what is authentic,
then go after it with all your heart.
Your heart, that place
you don’t even think of cleaning out.
That closet stuffed with savage mementos.
Don’t sort the paper clips from screws from saved baby teeth
or worry if we’re all eating cereal for dinner
again. Don’t answer the telephone, ever,
or weep over anything at all that breaks.
Pink molds will grow within those sealed cartons
in the refrigerator. Accept new forms of life
and talk to the dead
who drift in though the screened windows, who collect
patiently on the tops of food jars and books.
Recycle the mail, don’t read it, don’t read anything
except what destroys
the insulation between yourself and your experience
or what pulls down or what strikes at or what shatters
this ruse you call necessity.
Cake.
Collage & watercolor.

Cake.
Collage & watercolor.

4 days ago
2 notes
What the Body Wants by Amy Gerstler in Ghost Girl

What the Body Wants by Amy Gerstler in Ghost Girl

1 week ago
5 notes
Words by me; silkscreen & Bedwetter zine by artist Christopher Russell.

Words by me; silkscreen & Bedwetter zine by artist Christopher Russell.

1 week ago
2 notes
Age 13.
Thinking of the one behind me in this picture, the one I’ve known since I was three years old. All week I’d wanted to tell her about my father dying because she, out of all my friends, knew him the longest and best. The thought would rise and turn into smoke only to come barreling back into my heart muscle unexpectedly. That she might want to know. That she needed to know. And still the most recent rupture between us—that now feels like a century ago—kept me from contacting her. That, and the slippery passage of grief I move through. 
Last night she contacted me on Twitter. We do not follow each other so we could not direct message. She sent me the full force of her love and heartbreak upon hearing and understanding the news and I felt it. It was a public testimony of loss and the love that abides, despite difficulties, differences, and misunderstandings. 
Reading her words only reminded me that she was the one I trusted most going into the ocean with. She knows how to call the waves in such a way that my heartbeat quickens but I knew I could trust her implicitly about when to go under and when to ride over. She is the one who has spent the most time with me out before where the waves start their roll toward shore. 
And in this way I learned something new about grief. 

Age 13.

Thinking of the one behind me in this picture, the one I’ve known since I was three years old. All week I’d wanted to tell her about my father dying because she, out of all my friends, knew him the longest and best. The thought would rise and turn into smoke only to come barreling back into my heart muscle unexpectedly. That she might want to know. That she needed to know. And still the most recent rupture between us—that now feels like a century ago—kept me from contacting her. That, and the slippery passage of grief I move through. 

Last night she contacted me on Twitter. We do not follow each other so we could not direct message. She sent me the full force of her love and heartbreak upon hearing and understanding the news and I felt it. It was a public testimony of loss and the love that abides, despite difficulties, differences, and misunderstandings. 

Reading her words only reminded me that she was the one I trusted most going into the ocean with. She knows how to call the waves in such a way that my heartbeat quickens but I knew I could trust her implicitly about when to go under and when to ride over. She is the one who has spent the most time with me out before where the waves start their roll toward shore. 

And in this way I learned something new about grief. 

1 week ago
2 notes

Father in crows.

1 day ago
2 notes
43. by Wanda Coleman in Bathwater Wine.

43. by Wanda Coleman in Bathwater Wine.

2 days ago
12 notes
Loose by Rae Gouirand in Open Winter.

Loose by Rae Gouirand in Open Winter.

1 week ago
0 notes