Putting off tomorrow.

Originally posted on Extra Dry Martini:

“Procrastination is the thief of time.”

-Edward Young

Over and over and over again over these last two and a half years, I’ve reminded myself how precious time is; that it shouldn’t be wasted. After all, I’ve seen it in action: the way a mere phrase or phone call or the briefest of moments can permanently alter every cell in your body, so that afterwards you never think or dream or breathe the same way again. I don’t need anyone to tell me that all we have is this moment, this one, right now. I already know.

And yet. As I sit here, writing this to you, I am – at this very moment – procrastinating. I am putting off doing things that are important to me. Even after I resolved that I wouldn’t, I am still finding ways to stall. I am making excuses. Why?

I have a plan…

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a poet to her son

Originally posted on :

(https://www.pinterest.com/maternitique/the-maternal-muse/) (https://www.pinterest.com/maternitique/the-maternal-muse/)

the holy thrumming of the fan

in our bedroom is chanting your

lullaby in protective undertones.

 

I am cozy, staring into the poised

bassinet that will hold you just less

than cocooned to me in ten short weeks.

I practice knowing the smell of you,

I stay up later than I’m barely able just

to shake hands with the exhaustion

we’ll happily lend a room to.

 

and you – you are practicing self defense

beneath my flesh; to you, the only world there is.

I could make tiny wishes that you’d some day

tell me what my heartbeat sounds like from the inside:

glass-smooth jazz, a jagged pop beat?

 

I like to imagine my writer’s heart

beats like the honey of a romance novel,

appreciating with intensity every soft thump of life.

 

I question that you’ll read my work

(hold it high as Hamlet held…

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I Was A Manic Pixie Dream Girl

Originally posted on XX Factor:

Remember when I wrote that I felt like a character in someone else’s coming-of-age story? I was only scratching the surface with that. I’ve been long intrigued by a stock character in popular fiction – the Manic Pixie Dream Girl. For the non-literary of mind, this is a female character that is quirky, bubbly and helps the male protagonist grow from his limited state to a more liberated, mature place. She is immensely likeable and for awhile, it’s easy to confuse her for independent. It’s just that she is such a PERSONALITY, you tend to think of it as a strong one.

MPDG *Image via Reluctant Femme

It turns out I’ve been a Manic Pixie Dream Girl in many of my relationships with men in the past 10-odd years. No man who has been around me in this time would accuse me of being boring. Even the most hostile…

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Ebola: Epidemics, Pandemics and the Mapping of their Containment

Originally posted on REMEDIA:

By Tom Koch

“It was about the Beginning of September, 1664, that I, amongst the Rest of my Neighbours, heard in ordinary Discourse, that the Plague was returned in Holland, for it had been very violent there, and particularly at Amsterdam and Roterdam, in the year of 1663.”

Daniel Defoe, Journal of the Plague Year.[1]

That is how it always begins. There is an outbreak out there, somewhere, away in a place that is safely distant. If we care at all it is because we know the place and some of its people. Perhaps we have business with them. And, too, we care because the diseases affecting those distant places sometimes have traveled from out “there” to our “here.” That was certainly true for Defoe’s narrator, whose hopes that plague would not migrate to London were shattered in December of 1665 when the British Bill of Mortality listed…

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Goodluck Jonathan Should Resign Now For Muhammad Buhari – Rev. Fr. Ejike Mbaka

Originally posted on Welcome To Saving Grace Reporters:

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It was a night of memory and surprises for many Igbo
people last night and early morning today at the popular
Catholic Adoration Centre, Emene Enugu, as the
controversial Enugu Diocesan priest, Rev. Fr. Ejike Mbaka,
urged Ndigbo and every good Nigerian to vote out the
current Nigerian president, Dr. Goodluck Ebele Jonathan,
for his political opponent, General Muhammad Buhari.

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According to the man of God, President Goodluck
Jonanthan has disappointed Nigerians and means no
good anymore for the country. Full of passion and pity
for Nigeria, Fr. Mbaka knelt down in front of the altar of
God during his homily, cried and asked God to give
Nigeria a good leader and never President Goodluck
Jonathan. He used the opportunity to beg Nigerians to
vote wisely in the forthcoming election.

“I love President Goodluck Jonathan and I used to be his
ardent fan, but I want good for my people…

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The Translation of I Love You

Originally posted on Writes With Pencils:

Rosalie births a Francophile

For me, my early childhood didn’t exist before the book Rosalie the Bird Market Turtle was a part of it. The drawings were sketched out in improv jazz riffs of the early sixties. The palette was simple.  Shades of sienna and black line sketches were smudged with charcoal from a Montmartre street artist’s tray and stained with strawberry details, the old-fashioned kind that are red all the way through and smell like jam. The illustrator included all the classic Parisian scenes. The gendarme pointed with authority on a street corner. A waiter in a long, white apron and thin moustache served patrons at a busy sidewalk café. Lovers gazed at each other as they passed a green grocer in a cobbled market street. Vendors sold old books and artists painted along the Seine. And gargoyles perched on the towers of Notre Dame watching the street life below. I was fascinated…

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The Eroticism of Placelessness

Originally posted on Cody C. Delistraty:

On the way loneliness, freedom, and romance are intertwined.

For the past few weeks, I’ve woken up unsure exactly where I am. My bed, a modest full size, looks out onto a cobblestone courtyard framed by green linden trees and an intricately decorated castle. I’m in a pocket-sized one-bedroom apartment and although it is behind the Place des Vosges in Paris, by the looks of it I could be in Normandy or Toulouse, even Vermont. For that matter, there is no real way for me to know the year is 2014: save for the circle-pronged electrical outlet tucked behind my dresser, I could be waking up in the eighteenth century. In the haze of the early morning, these things tend to meld together.

The feeling of placelessness is a bit like a dream: the heightened romance, the intense brooding, the inherently transitory nature of the whole affair. Placelessness happens…

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