essa entrevista com ocean vuong, da qual anotei tanta coisa

• in one way, we can't escape who we are or how we are perceived, so move beyond that by caring it with you and tend to your curiosities as a person. otherwise you abstract yourself into a checkbox, a category and a theme.
• the fact that i look at my books and have regrets, and have the desire to improve, means that i have grown, that my capacity for care and thinking has expanded since i last read it or written it–and that's just a beautiful phenomena and i think we should be ok with the lack of perfection.
• i think no one really saves us in this world, but people give us the tools so that we can transform towards our own rescue. and i think that is true with poems–we write them, and they're good enough, and then we let them go. part of the act of writing is abandonment. and the best way to update a poem is perhaps to write the next one.
• queerness demands of me another route. it can't just be route 1 or route 2, there has to be another path–and often i have to make that path myself.
• my vulnerability is my power because it is where all care comes from. it is where all this desire for improvement, and my connection to others, my compassion comes from my understanding that i'm a very–as a species–i'm a very soft species, right, i'm a very weak species physically, perhaps even mentally. and there's something to say about the desire to destroy vulnerability.

esse texto, cuja última frase (if we want the rewards of being loved we have to submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known) aparentemente virou meme no tumblr mas conversa muito com os movimentos internos que tenho tido recentemente

esse episódio de radio lab, o qual os trechos abaixo resumem bem

• SHERI WELLS-JENSEN: And so in some ways, what we've done is widen the gap between what's possible and what's expected. ANDREW LELAND: Wait, you widened it or you narrowed it? S.W.J.: I think we widened it because we pushed what's possible out of step. Like, we went on this parabolic flight and it was like, "Oh, look at that! These disabled people can do that." But the expectations didn't change.
• A.L.: Let me ask you one more question about you, though, about this gap that you've talked about. If the flight is actually making the gap bigger, then why are you planning future flights? S.W.J.: Oh, because the gap has always been there, right? It's not like I discovered it, right? It just—I just had a particularly vicious [chuckles] experience of the gap, and that doesn't mean—I mean, because these flights make it better, right? In the end, these flights are going to make it better. I'm not a patient person, but I'm willing to take the long view when I have to, that we're making things better by doing the work of gathering the data that we need that will eventually make things more accessible, that will eventually change lives, that will eventually destroy the gap.

essa newsletter (com destaque a esse link onde uma pessoa diz que Every plant contains the power of God, the treasure of God, the blessing of God. So when someone plants a tree every time it moves the tree prays for that person to live longer.)

• and i could be completely naive and wrong about this next bit, but the next day i wondered, what would happen if I took all those those questions with all the little “what ifs” (“what if i lose this person?” / “what if i fail?” / “what if i never heal from this?”), and chose to answer them differently? and by differently, i mean: quietly—"well, for now, maybe you won't"—, hopefully—"maybe, even if you do, it won't be so bad"—, and a little daringly—"and maybe, if you do, you will find the strength to deal with it." hope, i have realised, is quiet my friends — but it’s always there ♡

esse episódio de the anthropocene reviewed, especificamente o trecho abaixo

• The keyboard is my path to having thoughts, and also my path to sharing them. I can’t play an instrument, but I can bang on this literary piano, and when it’s going well, a certain percussive rhythm develops. Sometimes—not every day, certainly, but sometimes—knowing where the letters are allows me to feel like I know where the words are. I love the sound of pressing keys on a great keyboard—the technical term is “key action”—but what I love most about typing is that on the screen or on the page, my writing is indistinguishable from anyone else’s. As a kid on the early Internet, I loved typing because no one could know how small and thin my hands were, how scared I was all the time, how I struggled to talk out loud. Online, back in 1991, I wasn’t made of anxious flesh and brittle bone; I was made out of keystrokes. Now, I don’t want to wax nostalgic about that Internet; it had all the problems of the current Internet, just on a smaller scale. My point is only that when I could no longer bear to be myself, I was able to become for a while a series of keys struck in quick succession. And on some level, that’s why I’m still typing all these years later.