That is the thing about hate, about loathing, even of oneself. There is a certain amount of love that has to go into that struggle. There is a certain amount of need and desire, because if there is no one there to vanquish, then what are we-who-strive even to do?
-I wish I could see your triumph. \parencite[128]{timewar}
+I wish I could see your triumph.\footnote{\parencite[128]{timewar}}
I wish I could see your triumph, me. I wish I could look up at you, broken and shattered, bleeding in the dust of unknown plains, and know — truly, utterly know — that I have been defeated, that I have been crushed and destroyed.
I wish I could see your triumph. Is that self-sacrificing of me? Of that part that loathes, that fears she is taking up too much space? I really don’t know. It’s not my place to know these things.
@@ -24,14 +24,14 @@I wish I could see your triumph. I wish I could see elation in your eyes. I wish I could see you laugh. I wish I could see just how it looks for you to set aside that way you devote every erg of energy to struggle and give me one of those full on, deep-throated laughs from your core that I know we all hide somewhere in our bodies.
I wish I could see your triumph, and I wish that, should you see mine, you understand just how much love goes into our struggle, just how much need and desire I hold for you.
-Do you laugh, sea foam? Do you smile, ice, and observe your triumph with an angel’s remove? \parencite[128]{timewar}
+Do you laugh, sea foam? Do you smile, ice, and observe your triumph with an angel’s remove?\parencite{\parencite[128]{timewar}}
As always, Rilke dogs me, a lingering taste hidden around some corner of my mouth. Every now and then, I think, every angel is terrifying, and then I’ll go about my day, repeating that like a mantra: every angel is terrifying every angel is terrifying every angel is terrifying every angel…
-He saw someone do that, I think I remember the story went. He was walking, perhaps out in a sulk, and saw someone face the sea, throw their arms wide, cry out to sea foam or ice or some unseen rank of angels, and…well, I don’t remember if he heard them, necessarily, but that’s how it went, right? Who, though I cry, would hear me among the ranks of angels, and then hundreds of lines later, ten elegies.
+He saw someone do that, I think I remember the story went. He was walking, perhaps out in a sulk, and saw someone face the sea, throw their arms wide, cry out to sea foam or ice or some unseen rank of angels, and…well, I don’t remember if he heard them, necessarily, but that’s how it went, right?\footnote{\parencite{duinowiki}} Who, though I cry, would hear me among the ranks of angels, and then hundreds of lines later, ten elegies.
So whenever I get that awkward-shaped piece of grit between my mouth — every angel is terrifying every angel is — I think of that scene. I think of the way we elevate the unknown to some higher place that ourselves. I think of the patterns we hunt for in the sea foam, in the waves that can take us under or bash us senseless against some barnacled rock. I think about the crush of worlds implied in the calving of an iceberg and how easily that could destroy. I think about that rank of angels who, holding me to their breast, could so easily annihilate?
Do they laugh, the sea foam, the ice, the angels?
-I write in fire across the sky, a plummet to match your rise. \parencite[129]{timewar}
+I write in fire across the sky, a plummet to match your rise.\parencite{\parencite[129]{timewar}}
So then, my angel, she who would live, I wish I could see your triumph.
I dream of it, that moment. I dream of falling to my knees, or being so badly broken that all I can do is lay there, unmoored, and look up to the way you rise above me.