There’s very little poetic about a dream of everyone abandoning you. I woke up in a sweat & had to check to make sure all of me was still there. Sometimes the things we do to influence the world make change like a supernova & sometimes they carve like glaciers. I’m playing with a bit of a poem right now—
forget weak knees, forget freckles on cheeks. forget a season of flower crowns where no one was royal & nothing was really real. forget the way you couldn’t understand physics (how the sun could be such a big zero in the nothingscape July) or biology (if you never kissed his neck again would he still sweat salt like stored-up tears?) forget the soreness of knowing you’re wrong but being too sorry to say it aloud. you don’t own the rights to any of these wrecking-ball realizations these days, so forget the way you used to pretend every mirror went two ways & that someone cared enough to look through. forget the way the pew forced your tiny bird bones into an unnatural shape & the way you whistled those lies through your larynx before your mom sat you down and told you that no one needed to pretend anymore. forget the disaster bag you had packed under your bed before the morning you realized there’s no warding off the cerebral catastrophes brewing in your brainwaves. forget the limitless length of time it took you to understand that you were dying a series of tiny deaths for nothing & no one. forget absolution in the face of obvious puppet strings predetermining everybody’s every move forever. forget your boarded-up bedroom window for making it impossible to get out of bed. it’s ok to say fuck, you know, if it makes you feel prettier than pink lips ever did. forget the way the corners of your mouth contort when you’re about to cave. forget the anti-explorative notions of anchors & the way they keep you pressed to worn polyester attitudes of a city you want to quit.
The Daily Cardinal recently spoke with Carlos Eduardo Gacharná, coordinator of the Hundred$ gallery reception that is taking place Dec. 7 on the fourth floor of 100 State Street from 6:30 p.m.-10:30 p.m.
You’ve just moved into an empty, back-lot apartment accessible only by a dumpster-laden alley and neither of your roommates will arrive for a few weeks. What could you possibly do to entertain yourself on a Tuesday night?
It’s no surprise that singer Justin Young was quick to identify the spirit animal for The Vaccines as a dog or wolf. For a group with a song entirely named after the animals (“Run with the wolves / Calling all the wolf pack / When did you go and when did you get back?”), it makes perfect sense that he likens the four-piece band to these creatures.
I’ve harbored a dislike from afar of Matt and Kim for a long time. Not as people, obviously. I’m sure they’re chill, but to say their music does nothing for me actually wouldn’t do justice to how I feel about them. With the announcement of their headlining status at Freakfest, I’ve here found my first medium to publicly voice my annoyance. As a disclaimer, I’m not a Matt and Kim expert by any means. I’ve only seen them from afar at Bonnaroo as they drowned out the sound of Dirty Projectors while I was trying to catch a quick ’Roo snooze in the grass and get my David Longstreth fix. You mess with my naps and you’re on my dislike list for a long time, but that was not the beginning of my distaste.
My biggest existential crises always strike in the aisles of the grocery store. It seems like the perfect location for a silent mental meltdown: People walking either hinderingly slow or so quickly it’s stressful, hundreds of tiny paper signs flapping in the artificial breeze of the refrigerated section begging for attention, vegetables staring at me silently asking why I haven’t eaten one since probably the last time I visited my parents. It’s both a convoluted environment and one that offers plenty of time to reflect on the nature of life whilst trying to read the smeared pen on my palm where I wrote my ultra important list of “Things I Cannot Forget!!!!” just this morning, like real adults do.
For the staff of MODA Magazine, UW-Madison’s online style magazine, next week will be anything but routine because the group will put on the first annual UW Fashion week, which it has spent the entire year pulling together.
UW-Madison students met with representatives from the university and construction companies Wednesday to discuss the demolition and reconstruction of the Crew House on Babcock Drive. Students living on the lake ' ¦
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Solutions by The State News
