df wallace

to write something and simultaneously do that thing Advertisements

on a very personal experience of race and class

Today, for the first time in a long time, I felt truly incompetent. And I’m slowly coming to realize how much of this incompetency — and it’s real, this divide, this game of catch-up that I will never win — comes because of socioeconomic status, class, sociopolitical history. It’s not racial. It was never about […]

sitting on an airport toilet seat

when a wave of emotion hits me is it the thought of women’s marches around the globe? is it that I am leaving home and family, no matter how dysfunctional, for yet another whole year?

what is music good for anyway

so frank ocean’s blonde is tainted by JKm and our breakup and apparently sufjan steven’s carrie and lowell is shot through with WB and I’s short tent stint morning light teal tent grey clouds white sheets green eyes

well, this sucks

I miss JKm I miss WB nothing like watching sappy pop music videos to make you nostalgic and achey and lovesick   actually, though.

wisdom teeth removal

somehow my chin has found a way to be itchy, painful, and numb all at once

a few profiles for the trip

k– 1: exceedingly like SS in his external, no nonsense, hyper self-assurance and rugged, blunt approach and focus on people. I really can’t describe it. k– 2: generous, gregarious, open, playful, relaxed, content; his lifestyle and self-assuredness in that lifestyle struck me; he was very much a man living outside the expectations of being unhappy […]

journal #14, 1/4/17

1/4/17, 2:42pm, sitting in the chair by the screen door in m—-‘s house in s— b—-; WB and JH are in the other room I am honestly so done with JH, I’m not even reflective right now. I am angry. I am not understanding, and I have no desire to continue this friendship. he is *mean* — […]

this I must remind myself

constantly, when with my mother: empathy is a privilege. understanding is a privilege. self-awareness is a privilege.

on my mother

it’s as if she is a vessel for a stream of mundane problems, as if she never reflects it’s as if there is no thought behind her constant flow of words, no internal life that is untouched by exposure