Yes, sentimental.
The holidays are sentimental, but
My, how those sentimentalities have changed.
The highly propagandized artifacts of Indigenous or Pagan tradition used to sell a white-washed settler-colonial history
Don’t spark the joy they used to.
Yes, time with loved ones is priceless.
In a society structured to capitalize and commodify Time, we must cherish what we have together
When we have it.
Further,
We must make it.
Slowing my drive past lit-up houses and decorated shrubbery to
Slow Down.
After all, who doesn’t like shiny things?
No, glitter is not necessarily gold,
But twinkle lights get me every time.
No time for lists anymore, though.
No wish.
No desire.
No want.
For however you frame it, the problem remains: it’s not the point.
We’re not merely consumers.
Yet, somehow, holidays end up the same–dipping into our pocketbooks.
Please don't misinterpret!
I love to give gifts.
And to get gifts!
But the homemade.
My home is full of the made of my friends, mentors, and loved ones. It is a space cultivated as carefully as the art it houses.
The intimacies and vulnerabilities of our most prized people, including ourselves.
Yes, we pour ourselves into our art.
What could be more precious than sharing that?
That’s the “giving season."
A chance to give more of ourselves to our community–
To find within ourselves what is unique to give to others.
Yes, I feel sentimental about that.
About the Creator
kp
I am a non-binary, trans-masc writer. I work to dismantle internalized structures of oppression, such as the gender binary, class, and race. My writing is personal but anecdotally points to a larger political picture of systemic injustice.
Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanovaa day ago in Poets
Public Announcement Challenge Winners
For the Public Announcement Challenge, writers were asked to work inside voices built for control. These were notices, warnings, and updates meant to inform rather than confess. The strongest entries committed to that form and didn't break from it. Corporate memos, formal government alerts, and internal policy language were held consistently, allowing emotion, fear, grief, or humor to surface indirectly through pressure rather than declaration. The following poems recognize the voice of authority, and let human feeling slip through despite all its rules and restraint.
By Vocal Curation Team4 days ago in Resources
Comments (3)
Must feel great to sit among the items homemade and gifted to you 🫶🏻
Tis the season for nostalgia. I totally get the bah humbug nature of it all. Sorry. Its all getting done anyway .
T find within ourselves what is unique to give others. Nicely Done.