BodyByBriscoe DieThenQuit!

Set a goal that makes you want to jump out of bed in the morning

Matsubara Naoko Solitude, Decaying Beauty, Wind, Spring Visitor, Thoreau, Drop of Life, from the portfolio Solitude, 1971. 

He had been a man of few words- never said he loved me and even his happiness was full of rage. Every night, he'd watch some game on the telly and talk about the stock market and bonds and things I never understood. I remember when the newspaper began to publish my articles, he barely read them and gave me a nod as if to show his acknowledgement. One day, I looked into his drawer to find some batteries and noticed a stack of newspaper cuttings, articles and poems and photographs, all of my work- the borders cut with such tenderness and care, I couldn't believe his hands could be so gentle.

My father carved me from his thigh and watered me with his blood and wondered where my rage came from. My father loved me in silence and wondered why I couldn't listen.