Margaret Leigh
@rogue_star
@rogue_star
My senses grow sharp in this silence intermittently punctuated by cries or the whistling of bullets. I no longer need to look in order to see: the sea is raging. Raging against the devils, against our resignation, against our cowardice, against us. I listen to it holler, scold, protest, refute. Furious, her waves lift abandoned sailboats and make t
... See moreKnowledge can no longer be thought of as a destination, a fixed point, or a static state. Curiosity is a verb for living rather than a noun to hold. In this conception of learning we may not seek instructors of knowledge as much as guides to experiences.
curiosity and Journaling
There was no lull from news bulletins coming through the radio; the French stations told how the English people were digging trenches in Hyde Park, and the English stations told how the French were calm and ready for anything.
If you closely observe your reading mind, you’ll find that as you encounter an excess in a story (some non-normative aspect), you enter into a transactional relationship with the writer. When Kafka writes, “Gregor Samsa woke up one morning from unsettling dreams . . . changed in his bed into a monstrous vermin,” you don’t say, “No, he didn’t, Fra
... See moreAs agents of fate, the Valkyries also have obvious links with the Norns, and Snorri even says that the “youngest” Norn, Skuld, rides with the Valkyries to choose the slain. In a strange battle poem called The Web of Spears, dating to either the tenth or eleventh centuries, a troupe of twelve horse-borne Valkyries are seen dismounting to enter a cot
... See moreLittle is understood, for example, of how the Vikings measured time. Their music and songs are a mystery; here there is a potential starting point in the few surviving instruments, with tonal qualities that can be reconstructed, but what the Vikings did with them is another matter entirely. It is unclear where women were believed to go when they di
... See moreThe night is so thick she can tell she is there only by the scraping of her feet and the tap, tapping of the stick in the loose gravel. A moonless night with only the call of the katydids and marsh frogs. A night to swallow you up, the stars hid by clouds, and memory guiding her tired feet home.