Posts Tagged: Anna March
The man I love and share my life with is an incredibly kind person who usually makes me a healthy, delicious smoothie in the morning and leaves it in the fridge for me for when I wake up, usually an hour or two later than he does....more
I try to be open about who I am. I’m not interested in having a blank slate; I’d rather everyone just know what’s on mine. Maybe people think I’m hiding from my past by being Anna. No, far from it. I’m showing you who I am.
Earlier this year, the Rumpus’s own Sari Botton described the burden of living with our reproductive choices in Confessions of a Good Girl.
But what of the men in all this reproductive choice-making? Currently they have little say regarding their responsibility for child support once their sexual partner makes her choice to continue with the pregnancy....more
Rumpus contributor Anna March has a new column at Literary Orphans. In her first column, she features essays by Rumpus contributor Laura Bogart, Shannon Barber, and our very own poetry editor, Brian Spears!
Here is a taste from Brian’s essay:
“I was baptized as one of Jehovah’s Witnesses in 1984 at the age of 15.
Two Words. Infinite Meanings. True Love. Missed Connections. 50% Divorce. First Date. Happy Nights. Sad Days. Star Crossed. Wedded Bliss. Bad Breakup. Holding Hands. Making Out. Great Sex. Poly Love....more
You can see the architecture of things in winter.
Structures glisten. Naked trees drip with clear popsicles. We find ourselves alone with ourselves. Everyone else has gone away to someplace warmer/better/more fun or else they are tucked indoors. Even when you live in a relatively warm place, winter still haunts....more
Van Gogh … beauty that breaks your heart.
Vincent painting images that he had to view through the bars of the asylum. Vincent eating his paints....more
Revelry. A raw expression of joy. Delight. It’s loud, laughing, possibly bawdy, frequently boozy....more
There are picnics where people discuss how long the potato salad can be out in the heat and there are picnics where people discuss Wittgenstein. At Wittgenstein picnics, the people are drinking red wine.
White wine is a kiss; red wine is sex. You can imagine Simone de Beauvoir with red wine in her Paris apartment....more
Maudlin: a feeling we don’t so much encounter as create. A sad place with funereal bits and a ladle of self-pity. Darker than Fitzgerald’s dark night of the soul, it is a place far past despair....more
Great writers wound us.
Their words cut into our bodies; their ideas become notions of ourselves. Cue Joan Didion. She stitches sentences through your brain. You emerge exhausted and charged — agreeing, disagreeing and questioning. Reading Didion invites a conjuring of her....more
Revolution begins with devotion to a moral vision and a belief that egregious wrongs must be made right. In this way all revolutions are a revolution within. These days, there is both revolution in the air and a fear that not enough of us are outraged....more
Sometimes it gets overlooked as a great city as we tend to focus our energies on considering the coasts and leave the interior as a great blur in our minds....more
Pastoral. For a long time we’ve thought of that simply as pastures, poetry about streams and paintings of lush, lime green grass. Cows. Works by Virgil. A certain longing for the countryside. Shepherds. Hills rather than towns.
Yes all of that is pastoral, but the notion runs deeper....more