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To my mind, joy is a constitutive part of the emotional rhetoric and comportment of those against whom the present swells at an annihilating pace. With joy, we breach the haze of suffering that denies us creativity and literature. Joy is art is an ethics of resistance.
The conundrum is that the data that is the past isn’t a block of clay we can, like an artist, press our hands into.
I wasn’t born to love myself every day.
Teens don’t read for beauty, but to practice the art of disappearance. Today, I read and write for beauty, and live so as to disappear.
What a danger to creativity, after all, to find oneself fitting neatly into the world!
Love can make even the smallest of spaces feel too large. How?
