i feel no connection to the literal motherhood of 9 months of blood sweat tears swelling birth etc. cool to think about and study but i will never want it. however the metaphorical meanings of motherhood of deep rooted connection i do. sure it takes 2 to make a baby but the baby is grown inside the "mother" parent (mother meaning the person with the womb not necessarily someone female). and you and your baby generally share the same 2 XX chromosomes for some time. and even after the baby is born, you are still attached, there's the task of snipping the chord. and then you watch this being grow and age and you feel so deeply connected to it and sometimes you feel angry and sad when it acts in ways you would not. there comes the time when you learn the baby is not an extension of you but rather an independent entity of its own. acid, mushrooms, weed, even the odd line of ket have at times allowed me to understand this true nature of inner connection to the self. something primal about how i can feel my self so deeply on these, the stillness n the dancing and the moments between. i grow, i change, sometimes i feel angry and sad when there's a lack of connection between my behaviour/self now and my behaviour/self in the past. i am intrinsically connected to every facet, every stage of my being forever, but they are different and grow and change on their own volition. permanent duality of chaos n connection, just like the dao says u gotta stay like water through it all.
“What would happen if we stopped acting as if the primordial form of work is laboring at a production line, or wheat field, or iron foundry, or even in an office cubicle, and instead started from a mother, a teacher, or a caregiver? We might be forced to conclude that the real business of human life is not contributing toward something called “the economy” (a concept that didn’t even exist three hundred years ago), but the fact that we are all, and have always been, projects of mutual creation. Labor, similarly, should be renegotiated. Submitting oneself to labor discipline—supervision, control, even the self-control of the ambitious self-employed—does not make one a better person. In most really important ways, it probably makes one worse. To undergo it is a misfortune that at best is sometimes necessary. Yet it’s only when we reject the idea that such labor is virtuous in itself that we can start to ask what is virtuous about labor. To which the answer is obvious. Labor is virtuous if it helps others. A renegotiated definition of productivity should make it easier to reimagine the very nature of what work is, since, among other things, it will mean that technological development will be redirected less toward creating ever more consumer products and ever more disciplined labor, and more toward eliminating those forms of labor entirely.”
— David Graeber, A Practical Utopian’s Guide to the Coming Collapse
BY MAGGIE SMITH
Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.
BY MAGGIE SMITH
I’m your guide here. In the evening-dark
morning streets, I point and name.
Look, the sycamores, their mottled,
paint-by-number bark. Look, the leaves
rusting and crisping at the edges.
I walk through Schiller Park with you
on my chest. Stars smolder well
into daylight. Look, the pond, the ducks,
the dogs paddling after their prized sticks.
Fall is when the only things you know
because I’ve named them
begin to end. Soon I’ll have another
season to offer you: frost soft
on the window and a porthole
sighed there, ice sleeving the bare
gray branches. The first time you see
something die, you won’t know it might
come back. I’m desperate for you
to love the world because I brought you here.