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mika_ added 1 item to 100 Favorite Books list
Go Tell It on the Mountain

1 year, 1 month ago
mika_ added 1 item to Read in 2016 list
Go Tell It on the Mountain
"There are people in the world for whom 'coming along' is a perpetual process, people who are destined never to arrive."
1 year, 1 month ago
mika_ added 1 item to Read in 2016 list
Captain Alatriste

1 year, 1 month ago
Outer Dark

1 year, 1 month ago
mika_ added 1 item to 100 Favorite Books list
Outer Dark

1 year, 1 month ago
mika_ added 1 item to Read in 2016 list
Outer Dark
"It's a hard thing to know what daylight will bring any day." "Hard people makes hard times. I've seen the meanness of humans till I don't know why God ain't put out the sun and gone away." "What needs a man to see his way when he's sent there anyhow?"
1 year, 1 month ago
mika_ added 1 item to 100 Favorite Books of Poetry list
Behind My Eyes: Poems
"A Hymn to Childhood" Childhood? Which childhood? The one that didn’t last? The one in which you learned to be afraid of the boarded-up well in the backyard and the ladder in the attic? The one presided over by armed men in ill-fitting uniforms strolling the streets and alleys, while loudspeakers declared a new era, and the house around you grew bigger, the rooms farther apart, with more and more people missing? The photographs whispered to each other from their frames in the hallway. The cooking pots said your name each time you walked past the kitchen. And you pretended to be dead with your sister in games of rescue and abandonment. You learned to lie still so long the world seemed a play you viewed from the muffled safety of a wing. Look! In run the servants screaming, the soldiers shouting, turning over the furniture, smashing your mother’s china. Don’t fall asleep. Each act opens with your mother reading a letter that makes her weep. Each act closes with your father fallen into the hands of Pharaoh. Which childhood? The one that never ends? O you, still a child, and slow to grow. Still talking to God and thinking the snow falling is the sound of God listening, and winter is the high-ceilinged house where God measures with one eye an ocean wave in octaves and minutes, and counts on many fingers all the ways a child learns to say Me. Which childhood? The one from which you’ll never escape? You, so slow to know what you know and don’t know. Still thinking you hear low song in the wind in the eaves, story in your breathing, grief in the heard dove at evening, and plentitude in the unseen bird tolling at morning. Still slow to tell memory from imagination, heaven from here and now, hell from here and now, death from childhood, and both of them from dreaming.
1 year, 1 month ago
mika_ added 1 item to Read in 2016 list
Behind My Eyes: Poems
Excerpt from "In His Own Shadow" "He reads: While all bodies share the same fate, all voices do not." "Have You Prayed" "When the wind turns and asks, in my father’s voice, Have you prayed? I know three things. One: I’m never finished answering to the dead. Two: A man is four winds and three fires. And the four winds are his father’s voice, his mother’s voice . . . Or maybe he’s seven winds and ten fires. And the fires are seeing, hearing, touching, dreaming, thinking . . . Or is he the breath of God? When the wind turns traveler and asks, in my father’s voice, Have you prayed? I remember three things. One: A father’s love is milk and sugar, two-thirds worry, two-thirds grief, and what’s left over is trimmed and leavened to make the bread the dead and the living share. And patience? That’s to endure the terrible leavening and kneading. And wisdom? That’s my father’s face in sleep. When the wind asks, Have you prayed? I know it’s only me reminding myself a flower is one station between earth’s wish and earth’s rapture, and blood was fire, salt, and breath long before it quickened any wand or branch, any limb that woke speaking. It’s just me in the gowns of the wind, or my father through me, asking, Have you found your refuge yet? asking, Are you happy? Strange. A troubled father. A happy son. The wind with a voice. And me talking to no one." "A Hymn to Childhood" "Childhood? Which childhood? The one that didn’t last? The one in which you learned to be afraid of the boarded-up well in the backyard and the ladder in the attic? The one presided over by armed men in ill-fitting uniforms strolling the streets and alleys, while loudspeakers declared a new era, and the house around you grew bigger, the rooms farther apart, with more and more people missing? The photographs whispered to each other from their frames in the hallway. The cooking pots said your name each time you walked past the kitchen. And you pretended to be dead with your sister in games of rescue and abandonment. You learned to lie still so long the world seemed a play you viewed from the muffled safety of a wing. Look! In run the servants screaming, the soldiers shouting, turning over the furniture, smashing your mother’s china. Don’t fall asleep. Each act opens with your mother reading a letter that makes her weep. Each act closes with your father fallen into the hands of Pharaoh. Which childhood? The one that never ends? O you, still a child, and slow to grow. Still talking to God and thinking the snow falling is the sound of God listening, and winter is the high-ceilinged house where God measures with one eye an ocean wave in octaves and minutes, and counts on many fingers all the ways a child learns to say Me. Which childhood? The one from which you’ll never escape? You, so slow to know what you know and don’t know. Still thinking you hear low song in the wind in the eaves, story in your breathing, grief in the heard dove at evening, and plentitude in the unseen bird tolling at morning. Still slow to tell memory from imagination, heaven from here and now, hell from here and now, death from childhood, and both of them from dreaming." "Trading for Heaven" "I saw you at the top of the stairs. Now I live a secret life. I saw you holding open the door. Now I’m filling pages with things I can’t tell anyone. Now I’m more alone than I’ve ever been. I traded every beyond, every someday, for heaven in my lifetime. Now I’m dying of my life. Now I’m alive inside my death. Do you see the space between our bodies? Barely a hand, hardly a breath, it is the space mountains and rivers are made of. It is the beginning of oceans, the space between either and or, both and neither, the happiness of forgetting our names and the happiness of hearing them for the first time. I heard you singing yourself to sleep. It was a song from both of our childhoods. And now I don’t know if singing is a form of helplessness, Time’s architecture revealed, or some inborn motive all blood and breath obey to enact a savage wheel. I found you at dawn sitting by the open kitchen window. You were sorting seeds in a plate. And if you were praying out loud, I’ll never tell. And if you were listening to the doves, and if their various whoo-ing, and coo-ing, and dying in time, are your earliest questions blown back to you through the ragged seasons, and if you’ve lived your life in answer to those questions, I’ll never tell. Your destiny is safe with me. Your childhood is safe with me. What you decide to bury is safe with me." Excerpt from "Descended from Dreamers" "Why are you crying? my father asked in my dream, in a which we faced each other, knees touching, seated in a moving train. He had recently died, and I was wondering if my life would ever begin. Looking out the window, one of us witnessed what kept vanishing, while the other watched what continually emerged." "Bring Home Her Name" "Whose house is this? Nobody knows. Birds flying in and out of every window all year long and doors swinging wide in the wind both ways, toward the glow of an imagined past, and toward the bride, that fleeing girl, the future. She hides by changing, escapes by standing still. The secret of possession? Go outside. She’ll come to rest inside you. Leave your will. Meet your dark lender, Evening, below the hill. Her father, he’ll tell you her name. Then you’ll ransom the hours and heart you spent playing house on property lent, taste her name and for what your life is meant."
1 year, 1 month ago
1 year, 1 month ago
mika_ added 1 item to 100 Favorite Sci Fi Books list
334: A Novel

1 year, 2 months ago
mika_ added 1 item to Read in 2016 list
334: A Novel
"Creativeness is the ability to see relationships where none exist."
1 year, 2 months ago
1 year, 2 months ago
mika_ added 1 item to Read in 2016 list
The Ice Queen : A Novel
"The possibility of being blown out like a match made us burn."
1 year, 2 months ago
mika_ added 1 item to Read in 2016 list
Bloom County: The Complete Library, Vol. 4: 1986-1987 (Bloom County Library)

1 year, 2 months ago
mika_ added 1 item to 100 Favorite Fantasy Books list
Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage: A novel

1 year, 2 months ago
mika_ added 1 item to Read in 2016 list
Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage: A novel
"'Pain is what gives rise to meditation. It has nothing to do with age...'" "'As we go through life we gradually discover who we are, but the more we discover, the more we lose ourselves.'"
1 year, 2 months ago
mika_ added 2 items to 100 Favorite Fantasy Books list
I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream
The Elephant Vanishes

1 year, 2 months ago
mika_ added 1 item to Read in 2016 list
Bloom County: The Complete Library, Vol. 3: 1984-1986 (Bloom County Library)

1 year, 2 months ago
mika_ added 2 items to Read in 2016 list
Bloom County: The Complete Library, Vol. 2: 1982-1984 (Bloom County Library)
Bloom County: The Complete Collection, Vol. 1: 1980-1982 (Bloom County Library)

1 year, 2 months ago
mika_ added 2 items to their collection
Bloom County: The Complete Library, Vol. 2: 1982-1984 (Bloom County Library)

owned

6/10

Bloom County: The Complete Collection, Vol. 1: 1980-1982 (Bloom County Library)

6/10


1 year, 2 months ago
mika_ added 2 items to Read in 2016 list
Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Riley One Shot
Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Willow One Shot

1 year, 2 months ago
mika_ posted 2 images

1 year, 2 months ago
mika_ added 2 items to their collection
Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Riley One Shot

owned

4/10

Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Willow One Shot

4/10


1 year, 2 months ago
The West Wing
 The West Wing 10/10
1 year, 3 months ago
mika_ added 1 item to Read in 2016 list
The Year of Magical Thinking
"A single person is missing for you, and the whole world is empty."
1 year, 3 months ago
The IT Crowd
 The IT Crowd 5/10
1 year, 3 months ago
mika_ added 1 item to Read in 2016 list
The Lowland (Vintage Contemporaries)
"In a world of diminishing mystery, the unknown persists."
1 year, 3 months ago
mika_ added 1 item to Read in 2016 list
Against Forgetting: Twentieth-Century Poetry of Witness
"Night Ray" - Paul Celan "Most brightly of all burned the hair of my evening loved one: to her I send the coffin of lightest wood. Waves billow round it as round the bed of our dream in Rome; it wears a white wig as I do and speaks hoarsely: it talks as I do when I grant admittance to hearts. It knows a French song about love, I sang it in autumn when I stopped as a tourist in Lateland and wrote my letters to morning. A fine boat is that coffin carved in the coppice of feelings. I too drift in it downbloodstream, younger still than your eye. Now you are young as a bird dropped dead in March snow, now it comes to you, sings you its love song from France. You are light: you will sleep through my spring till it's over. I am lighter: in front of strangers I sing." "The Desert" - Edmond Jabes "Hidden language, not that of hands or eyes, a language beyond gesture, beyond looks, smiles or tears that we had to learn! Ah, what desert will revive it now? We thought we were done with crossing the desolate stretch of land where the word had dragged us, making us and our wanderings bear amazed witness to its perennial nature. And here silence leads us into its glass kingdom, vaster yet at first sight, breaking all trace of our passage. ...primal silence which we cannot escape. Do not confuse hothouse and desert, plant and speech. Silence shelters, sand shifts. Princely, the plant; the word, a particle of dust. Image stripped of its verbal eloquence - don't we speak of a telling likeness? - representing nothing. Yellowed. Does forgetting have a color? Ah, this yellow, color of awakened sand. There lies the better part of my past. What persists, writing recovers in fragments. Write, write, write in order to remember. You only understand what you destroy." Excerpt from "My Name" - Daniel Berrigan "Only the innocent die. Take up, take up the bloody map of the century. The long trek homeward begins into the land of unknowing." Excerpt from "Another Night in the Ruins" - Galway Kinnell "How many nights must it take one such as me to learn that we aren't, after all, made from that bird which flies out of its ashes, that for a man as he goes up in flames, his one work is to open himself, to be the flames?" "The Song Taught to Joseph" - Ray A. Young Bear "I was born unto this snowy-red earth with the aura and name of the Black Lynx. When we simply think of each other, night begins. My twin the Heron is on a perpetual flight northward, familiarizing himself with the landscape of Afterlife, but he never gets there... because the Missouri River descends from the Northern Plains into the Morning Star. One certain thing though, he sings the song of the fish below him in the mirror of Milky Way. It goes: In this confrontation, the gills of the predator overtake me in daylight near home; in this confrontation, he hinders my progress with a cloud of mud he stirs. Crying, I ask that I not feel each painful part he takes, at least not until I can grasp in the darkness the entrance of home." "Silence: 2" - Sipho Sepamla "The silence I spear of stretches the moment to Pretoria Bloemfontein and Cape Town it is the same silence that has walled in tense remembrances of days making each moment pebbles of time the silence I speak of tends to confound my tongue I gurgle speech sounds like a river sipping the marrow of aged rocks the silence I speak of crouches the night to make shadows that terrorize even the illusions I fabricate daily I collide with ghosts that walk day-night streets hourly I feel the howling of their wintered hearts break into the ease I've learnt to pace I've sought to read the brooding silence that betrays itself with dry coughs or unfolding wrinkles sometimes I've gone down on all fours raking the earth with one ear to pick what murmurs may glide down there beneath the roots how this silence I hear breeds on avenues of despair I'll never know I speak of a silence I fear" "Accomplices" - Bei Dao "Many years have passed, mica gleams in the mud with a bright and evil light like the sun in a viper's eyes in a jungle of hands, roads branch off and disappear where is the young deer perhaps only a graveyard can change this wilderness and assemble a town freedom is nothing but the distance between the hunter and the hunted when we turn and look back the arc drawn by bats against the vast background of our fathers' portraits fades with the dusk we are not guiltless long ago we became accomplices of the history in the mirror, waiting for the day to be deposited in lava and turn into a cold spring to meet the darkness once again"
1 year, 3 months ago

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