By Claudia Rankine
Imagine them in black, the morning heat losing within this day that floats. And always there is the being, and the not-seeing on their way to—
The days they approach and their sharpest aches will wrap experience until knowledge is translucent, the frost on which they find themselves slipping. Never mind the loose mindless grip of their forms reflected in the eye-watering hues of the surface, these two will survive in their capacity to meet, to hold the other beneath the plummeting, in the depths below each step full of avoidance. What they create will be held up, will resume: the appetite is bigger than joy. indestructible. for never was it independent from who they are. who will be.
Were we ever to arrive at knowing the other as the same pulsing compassion would break the most orthodox heart.
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It was hot and stifling on Thursday and I felt kind of low-energy, so apart from going out for a couple of chores and an Aerodactyl raid so my baby account could finally finish the Meltan quest -- I did see a bunny and a couple of deer -- I mostly stayed in the AC and did stuff in the house like hanging up both kids' college graduation photos.
We watched Pitch Perfect 3, which was fluffy but enjoyable (I insisted on turning off the Ravens game, I am not ready for football season), then we watched the penultimate episode of Elementary, which was stressful. From the VMFA's Cosmologies from the Tree of Life: Art from the African American South exhibit (titles on photo pages):
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