Category Archives: Writing

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I’ve passed this cactus seventeen times and the moon is always missing the same bite no matter how many days I’ve managed not to lose my hat falling into pits and climbing walls. Remember that time everything was under water? That was some weird shit, man; all that swimming with so much stuff in my pockets. But no one can say I’m not prepared for whatever is thrown from the clouds or spit by carnivorous plants.

Another weird thing is how wellness and power can be bought but these coins aren’t good for transportation. We can build lifts with invisible pulleys, but have no decent subways? Just keep moving, I guess.

Really though, it’s becoming increasingly difficult to go through these lives of mine. If I stop to catch my breath I’m pushed along until death between the edge of time and a hard place. Pick up the pace!

But where am I going? Why are there so many castles and only two discernible figureheads? Where are the houses and grocery stores? Everyone I meet couldn’t truly be an enemy. It’s me, isn’t it? Treading on the shells of my neighbors, what am I fighting for?

I call upon the muses.

I wrote this last year when I was thinking about Ada Lovelace day, was looking for it again and realized I never posted it. Belatedly, please enjoy my rap stylings and wiki some inspirational ladies of STEM history.
xoxo,
Auntie Flow

(a love song)

I’ve never been one to express much more than doubt
But I got this new feeling and I need to work it out
It burns and aches and confuses
So I’m gonna call upon a different set of muses

Like Kovalevskaya I’ve got some conditions
for the existence of solutions to partial differential equations
With respect to all variables, and the seeming distinctness of your
physical phenomena
colorfully illustrated like Merian’s rejection of spontaneous
generation in Lepidoptera
it’d be easy to get all swept into poetical exuberance,
ascribing your finer attributes to divine beneficence
and pass like Diotima from appreciation of Beauty
to rapt spirituality

Would that like Aglaonike, I could calculate the time when we align
and make the moon disappear to blow your mind, an omen, a sign!
And like Tapputi, distill the essence of your select elements
to analyze the origin of my intents with ancient fantastic instruments,
then back to Earth like Tereshkova with stunning observations like Jump-Cannon
proving there’s more to chart than the many moons between now and then
when things were unknown but not unknowable, and I, too, just wanted
to be friends
What price a connection that through time and space transcends?

Would that like Lovelace I could write an algorithm, a system of instructions
to solving this mind-body dichotomy proposed by Elisabeth of Bohemia’s
deductions
that stumped Descartes, and goes on to list the order of operations needed
for two separate entities to interact unimpeded
Reason and feeling, my fear and your … ambivalence?
Apply some logic, check for false inference
Determine our positions in orbit, like Cunitz’s solution to Kepler’s problem
Diagram the intersection between best-of and more-than.

Here’s my hypothesis,
my educated guess
provisionally accepted,
based on the data collected
There’s a case to be made
shown in my visual aid
See Figure 1: Constructive Interferences
Mutual reinforcement produces
a single amplitude equaling the sum
of two individual waves becoming one
We’re better as a pair
I know what we’ve got is rare
But here’s my sentiment
Let’s do this experiment

Triolet

Caverock

Have you heard the earlier stuff?
Everything was better before
And nothing new will be good enough
Have you heard? The earlier stuff
harsh and deep and rough
By virtue of age just… more.
Have you heard the earlier stuff?
Everything was better before.

standards of tragedy

Lou Tellegen, stage actor, silent film star and one of the golden age of Hollywood’s most handsome and scandalous characters (having broken an engagement with Sarah Bernhardt [30-some years his senior] and married and divorced diva Geraldine Ferrar, among others) was disfigured in a horrible fire, lost in the fickle tides of fame and found in pile of his newspaper clippings and blood after stabbing himself seven times with a pair of dull sewing scissors. That is tragedy. What you have – is more of a comeuppance, asshole.