“One outspoken native person said, “We want to show the world that we are an organized people. In the future, we don’t want to end up engraved in a museum’s exhibit. We want our music and dance, our songs to nature, to our homes, and to our motherland performed by our people themselves while they are alive. We don't want to be thought of as dead people to be exhibited in a museum, and described in a book, or recorded on film—that is not our tradition.
We are a community like any other community in the world. When we go back to our communities, we will tell them that at the museum, we have seen the work of our parents and grandparents who—maybe naively—handed over these sacred objects, which are our people's property, heritage, and patrimony.”
— Donald Lee Fixico, The American Indian Mind in a Linear World: American Indian Studies and Traditional Knowledge (2003)
We are a community like any other community in the world. When we go back to our communities, we will tell them that at the museum, we have seen the work of our parents and grandparents who—maybe naively—handed over these sacred objects, which are our people's property, heritage, and patrimony.”
— Donald Lee Fixico, The American Indian Mind in a Linear World: American Indian Studies and Traditional Knowledge (2003)
❤2
Ana Hatherly
Poeta chama poeta I / Poeta chama poeta II
1989
Poeta chama poeta I / Poeta chama poeta II
1989
🔥1
To stand, in the shadow
of the stigma in the air.
Standing-for-no-one-and-nothing.
Unrecognized,
for you
alone.
With all that has room in it,
even without
language.
– Paul Celan, To stand, trans. Pierre Joris
of the stigma in the air.
Standing-for-no-one-and-nothing.
Unrecognized,
for you
alone.
With all that has room in it,
even without
language.
– Paul Celan, To stand, trans. Pierre Joris
❤5
“How to sleep in a world without a lullaby, without a lulling refrain, without a capacity for forgetting, without unconsciousness itself, since Eros and Thanatos patrol everywhere shamelessly, sardonic watchmen armed with whips and cudgels? How to sleep in a world hypnotized by the vision of its own absence of vision of the world, as well as by the inanity of all visions that have dissolved but that always used to promise awakenings, triumphant mornings following splendid evenings in the blaze of which night has been forever discredited?
How to sleep, distraught soul, soul without soul, soul that floats lifeless over the field of battle or muck whose inanity an operating-room lamp garishly exposes?”
— Jean-Luc Nancy, The Fall of Sleep: The Soul That Never Sleeps, trans. by Charlotte Mandell
How to sleep, distraught soul, soul without soul, soul that floats lifeless over the field of battle or muck whose inanity an operating-room lamp garishly exposes?”
— Jean-Luc Nancy, The Fall of Sleep: The Soul That Never Sleeps, trans. by Charlotte Mandell
❤1
Led home into oblivion the sociable talk of our slow eyes.
Led home, syllable after syllable, shared out among the dayblind dice, for which the playing hand reaches out, large, awakening.
And the too much of my speaking: heaped up round the little
crystal dressed in the style of your silence.
— Paul Celan, Below, trans. Michael Hamburger
Led home, syllable after syllable, shared out among the dayblind dice, for which the playing hand reaches out, large, awakening.
And the too much of my speaking: heaped up round the little
crystal dressed in the style of your silence.
— Paul Celan, Below, trans. Michael Hamburger
❤2