bubble of humans presents DATING.

featuring Lydia Scott, Vincent Benlloch and Ella Williams.

see last month’s episode on LOVE.

“sidewise” – cassell

I’ve just liked how music makes me feel, honestly. It’s 19 degrees out, there is snow on the ground, the wind cuts the temperature down in half, yet you can catch me on 6th avenue trudging through the sleet walking to Kum & Go at 2 am, why?

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The Taxidermy of Sacagawea

Some words disappear into history like the buffalo: her name for home, her name

her chatter weaving through the grasses and the hides
the way my friend screamed when i scraped my knee in her driveway

If only she’d kept a diary; not this one on display
made in her wake, nor the one made by the two men she led
she’ll remain undocumented, remains unoccupied story unknowable
only the consequences of her choices disrupt these days

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The Mixed Up Files of Mr. Nolan B. Boggess (Part I)

7:30pm

I enter the Marketplace Grill and nervously scan my friend’s p-card, as my lunch bunch dining plan does not allot me the comfort of dinner. I head straight to pizza, ignoring the nutritionist’s comment that pizza isn’t the best source of protein for every meal. Stupid.

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We Cannot Be Fed Lies, or Alternatively: California

The soup from the sky
filled the boats, the streets, the homes.

The people, at first, were first
to rejoice. Cracked hands flexed

bowlssoupsoupsoupsoupsoup—supping,
upping up every drop. Mouths, open in little ozones,

gulped down the soupdrops; people bought the soupdrops;
eyes ears callouses made ridges

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Waking Up

Content Warning: Suicide ideation

You feel your eyes open and see nothing but the inside of your head; a distorted howl gallops over you. A sliver of light splits your vision and a dim glow leaks through the cracks. You feel your eyes close; the light hesitates. You know you’re breathing. The sweat on your back sticks you to your sheets and anchors you down. Your limbs are hollow and disconnected. The room twirls slowly like a music box and your breath bubbles. You can feel the density of the air press you and keep you held in position. The night sounds heavy through your cracked window. A gurgle grows from your stomach and wanders up until it leaks out your parted lips. They are dry. A film slides across your tongue. You spread it to your lips and wait as your breath peels it back off. The room keeps moving.

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Stanford

I.

I was twenty years old
when I saw her dance like a flickering candle.
I was a lanky pock-marked chlorine-bleached bad haircut.
And she was a beauty,
in a sloshy sort of party way.
It wasn’t holy. She was too drunk-
I was drunk too.

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Freedom of Speech in the Age of Trump

A couple weeks ago, posters from the newly-formed Republican club were torn down in the loggia, and ended up sparking some charged conversations. On the Class of 2020 Facebook page several students weren’t quick to sympathize with the club, as anti-fascist art had also been torn down on campus. One person said: “It’s not ok when protest art is being destroyed but our campus only cares about making republicans feel comfortable!!” The raw emotion jumped off my screen at me as I read it. Beneath that post was: “Grinnell College Campus Republicans, when you host a Republicans Against Trump action i’ll care abt your group. until then i’m not about to waste my energy carving out a space for you on this campus for the sake of ‘political diversity’.”

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