We are a public forum committed to collective reasoning and the imagination of a more just world. Join today to help us keep the discussion of ideas free and open to everyone, and enjoy member benefits like our quarterly books.
Sunlight falls through the square window into the water of the inside pool and is reflected onto the blue wall above it. Ghost-handkerchiefs, whiter at the folds. When I create a wave with my hands, the view disperses, as in a blizzard, but soon, the fluttering squares return. I could say that when I’m gone, I’ll come back to you like this, talking to myself the way the soul does. If that is true, then whose soul is this? Sometimes I can sense death coming and it is white, too. A name that enters, disturbs the field as the first butterfly might. Mourning Cloak with its velvet tippet, its golden hem. There are the two-by-fours that hit us in the sensory world. And the medium approach of evening, shuffling in the pines. There is the differentiation of colors, louder for the painters. When I wake at dawn, a low-grade fever of the mind, and go out on my porch to cool it off, the spider web I don’t see until rain strings its beads. Or the dead, who wear the softer hands of the living.
Vital reading on politics, literature, and more in your inbox. Sign up for our Weekly Newsletter, Monthly Roundup, and event notifications.
Decades of biological research haven’t improved diagnosis or treatment. We should look to society, not to the brain.
Though a means of escaping and undermining racial injustice, the practice comes with own set of costs and sacrifices.
Pioneering Afro-Brazilian geographer Milton Santos sought to redeem the field from its methodological fragmentation and colonial legacies.