Marielle Hellraiser 💀
@mags.colvett.online
11.5K followers 1.8K following 6.7K posts
Appalachian in Queens • Writer, editor, union member • My cathedral is built for a god to see so even secret places have ornament • They/it/whatever
Appalachian in Queens • Writer, editor, union member • My cathedral is built for a god to see so even secret places have ornament • They/it/whatever
![During the same period, Luxemburg also pressed several plants from the prison garden, including carrot, grape hyacinth, borage, elm, asparagus, and red goosefoot. On September 18, 1915, she dated an elm leaf that blew into her cell from the prison yard. In letters from Wronke and in Wrocław she lamented the absence of a garden. But even there, in the courtyard, she spotted and identified flowers and watched insects and birds.
In a letter to Mathilde Jacob dated February 7, 1917, Luxemburg wrote:
On my grave, as in my life, there will be no pompous phrases. Only two syllables will be allowed to appear on my gravestone: "Tsvee-tsvee." That is the call made by the great tit[mouse], which I can imitate so well that they all immediately come running.... In spite of the snow and frost and loneliness, we believe-the titmice and I—in the coming of spring!
In the context of her confinement, the herbarium reflects both Luxemburg's affinity for botany and the tensions she sometimes felt between her passion for the natural sciences and her political obligations.
In a letter to Sophie Liebknecht sent from Wronke prison on May 2, 1917, Luxemburg confessed:](https://cdn.bsky.app/img/feed_thumbnail/plain/did:plc:u7x7lujm5mxy25eeepqgu3nk/bafkreia5x4ka3kxqzxsp3hmc7amkfpcmudgs5jatpzynv4x4nd5g772e5u)
![[alt text partial, full text at link]
I would like to learn, or remember, how to live. I come to Hollins Pond not so much to learn how to live as, frankly, to forget about it. That is, I don't think I can learn from a wild animal how to live in particular--shall I suck warm blood, hold my tail high, walk with my footprints precisely over the prints of my hands?--but I might learn something of mindlessness, something of the purity of living in the physical sense and the dignity of living without bias or motive. The weasel lives in necessity and we live in choice, hating necessity and dying at the last ignobly in its talons. I would like to live as I should, as the weasel lives as he should. And I suspect that for me the way is like the weasel's: open to time and death painlessly, noticing everything, remembering nothing, choosing the given with a fierce and pointed will.
I missed my chance. I should have gone for the throat. I should have lunged for that streak of white under the weasel's chin and held on, held on through mud and into the wild rose, held on for a dearer life. We could live under the wild rose as weasels, mute and uncomprehending. I could very calmly go wild. I could live two days in the den, curled, leaning on mouse fur, sniffing bird bones, blinking, licking, breathing musk, my hair tangled in the roots of grasses. Down is a good place to go, where the mind is single. Down is out, out of your ever-loving mind and back to your careless senses. I remember muteness as a prolonged and giddy fast, where every moment is a feast of utterance received. Time and events are merely poured, unremarked, and ingested directly, like blood pulsed into my gut through a jugular vein. Could two live that way? Could two live under the wild rose, and explore by the pond, so that the smooth mind of each is as everywhere present to the other, and as received and as unchallenged, as falling snow?](https://cdn.bsky.app/img/feed_thumbnail/plain/did:plc:u7x7lujm5mxy25eeepqgu3nk/bafkreiafttqoavmyfqvtk3phkwx3wppjkcpoe577pzu32nxs37pcqhsaza)
![Incoming text:
It's John Fetterman: You've heard the smears. Now hear the truth --and decide for yourself: [url]
STOP=END
Outgoing text:
FOR GOD'S SAKE PULL OVER THE CAR](https://cdn.bsky.app/img/feed_thumbnail/plain/did:plc:u7x7lujm5mxy25eeepqgu3nk/bafkreiht7o33yj7ftlpiy6svmvutqxft4nh3svrnqbpvk6lkklvianmjca)
