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Unraveller
by
Being human was hard. It took practice. If you spent too much time being something else, it was difficult to find your way back. Perhaps Gall was running out of reasons to try.
“Sie wenden sich gern ab oder lesen nicht weiter, wenn sie nur das Wort "Trans" hören oder ein Sternchen oder einen Unterstrich sehen – als verdienten Phänomene oder Menschen, die es seltener gibt, keine Aufmerksamkeit oder Wertschätzung. Als reichte die eigene Empathie nicht oder als sollte sie nicht reichen. Dabei ist es vielen bei den eher unwahrscheinlichen Figuren aus dem Kosmos von z.b. Shakespeare (...) ganz selbstverständlich, sich einzufühlen und ihre Geschichten verstehen zu wollen. Selten heißt schließlich nicht seltsam oder monströs. Selten heißt nur selten. Es sind womöglich nur Menschen, über die seltener Geschichten erzählt werden. Und es sind manchmal die Menschen mit besonderen, seltenen Eigenschaften oder Erfahrungen, in deren Sehnsüchten und Kämpfen um Anerkennung sich die Verletzbarkeit als condition humaine selbst spiegelt. Und so ist es gerade die Verwundbarkeit von Transpersonen, ihre Suche nach Sichtbarkeit und Anerkennung, in der sich jene wechselseitige Abhängigkeit zeigt, die uns als Menschen allgemein kennzeichnet. Insofern berührt und betrifft die Situation von Transpersonen alle. Nicht nur diejenigen, die so leben und empfinden wie sie. Die Rechte von Transpersonen sind so wichtig wie alle Menschenrechte, und sie zu begründen und zu verteidigen gehört zur Selbstverständlichkeit universalistischen Denkens.”
― Gegen den Hass
― Gegen den Hass
“I want queer authors to write anything and everything they need to write. I have no interest in gatekeeping; I want the full spectrum. I want the coming out books. I want the books about queer suffering. I want on-page catharsis and exploration of trauma. I want the happy books, too: queer joy books, cute romantic comedies, first crush books, fantasies about queer royals and revolutionaries and spaceship captains. (...) We need all types of queer stories because all types of queer people exist. I want the market to be so saturated with queer books that anyone who needs to see themselves in a story—anyone who hasn’t yet seen themselves, hasn’t yet gotten to be the hero—can walk into any bookstore and find a book (or six) about someone who experiences the world like they do. I want every queer author to get the chance to tell their story. To tell people, We exist everywhere. We suffer, we survive, we love. We can be magic, too.”
―
―
“Ich lebe mein Leben in wachsenden Ringen,
die sich über die Dinge ziehn.
Ich werde den letzten vielleicht nicht vollbringen,
aber versuchen will ich ihn.
Ich kreise um Gott, um den uralten Turm,
und ich kreise jahrtausendelang;
und ich weiß noch nicht: bin ich ein Falke, ein Sturm
oder ein großer Gesang.”
― Gedichte
die sich über die Dinge ziehn.
Ich werde den letzten vielleicht nicht vollbringen,
aber versuchen will ich ihn.
Ich kreise um Gott, um den uralten Turm,
und ich kreise jahrtausendelang;
und ich weiß noch nicht: bin ich ein Falke, ein Sturm
oder ein großer Gesang.”
― Gedichte
“Turtles are amazing.”
― The Last Hero
― The Last Hero
“The Turtle
breaks from the blue-black
skin of the water, dragging her shell
with its mossy scutes
across the shallows and through the rushes
and over the mudflats, to the uprise,
to the yellow sand,
to dig with her ungainly feet
a nest, and hunker there spewing
her white eggs down
into the darkness, and you think
of her patience, her fortitude,
her determination to complete
what she was born to do—
and then you realize a greater thing—
she doesn't consider
what she was born to do.
She's only filled
with an old blind wish.
It isn't even hers but came to her
in the rain or the soft wind,
which is a gate through which her life keeps walking.
She can't see
herself apart from the rest of the world
or the world from what she must do
every spring.
Crawling up the high hill,
luminous under the sand that has packed against her skin.
she doesn't dream
she knows
she is a part of the pond she lives in,
the tall tress are her children,
the birds that swim above her
are tied to her by an unbreakable string.”
― New and Selected Poems, Volume One
breaks from the blue-black
skin of the water, dragging her shell
with its mossy scutes
across the shallows and through the rushes
and over the mudflats, to the uprise,
to the yellow sand,
to dig with her ungainly feet
a nest, and hunker there spewing
her white eggs down
into the darkness, and you think
of her patience, her fortitude,
her determination to complete
what she was born to do—
and then you realize a greater thing—
she doesn't consider
what she was born to do.
She's only filled
with an old blind wish.
It isn't even hers but came to her
in the rain or the soft wind,
which is a gate through which her life keeps walking.
She can't see
herself apart from the rest of the world
or the world from what she must do
every spring.
Crawling up the high hill,
luminous under the sand that has packed against her skin.
she doesn't dream
she knows
she is a part of the pond she lives in,
the tall tress are her children,
the birds that swim above her
are tied to her by an unbreakable string.”
― New and Selected Poems, Volume One
Maja’s 2025 Year in Books
Take a look at Maja’s Year in Books, including some fun facts about their reading.
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