#Laura Lamb Brown-Lavolie

[chryso-poeia]

On This the 100th Anniversary of the Sinking of the Titanic, We Reconsider the Buoyancy of the Human Heart

What’s wrong? Titanic asked me this morning, when she found me lying on the ocean floor with all my suitcases strewn open.

Oh, I dunno, I moaned. I was looking through National Geographic and saw some pictures of you, and thought I might come have a chat. You looked great, by the way, in the pictures.

Me? No. Titanic smiled. If anything I seem to have become a Picasso. And I have a beard.

It was true; she looked more like a collage of a ship. Strangely two-dimensional, in a crater of her own making: French doors, boilers, railings every which way. And she did have a bit of a beard-rust icicles hanging in red strands from her iron engines.

Sitting up in my own little crater, I sort-of blushed.

To be honest, I told Titanic, My honey’s leaving town soon and I’m afraid it’s gonna wreck me, so I dove down here.

Well come on in, Titanic said, but I’m not sure I’ve got what you’re looking for.

So in I climbed, through a window between two rust stalactites, and began to pace her great promenade. (Which should have been awesome, by the way — walking by the ghosts of all those waving handkerchiefs — except that I was in that feeling-sorry-for-yourself state where every hallway is the hallway of your own wretched mind, every ghost your own ghost, so I didn’t take a good look around.)

When I got to the Turkish baths, I sat on the edge of a barnacled tub and watched weird crabs scrabble at my feet.

I was hoping you’d teach me how to sink, I said. You who have spent a century underwater with 1500 skeletons in your chest.

I don’t know, said Titanic, I’m kind of a wreck.

Exactly! I said, Me too! I’m here to apprentice myself to wreckage. I’m here to apprentice myself to you! Great bearded lady, gargantuan ark, you floating hotel. With enough ballrooms in you to dance with everyone I’ve ever loved.

My heart has an iceberg with its name on it, I told Titanic, so I need your advice. Tell me, did you see the iceberg coming?

I did, Titanic said.

And you sailed right into it?

It was love, Titanic said.

And the band just kept playing? And the captain stayed at the wheel? What did it feel like to swallow seawater? Tell me, Titanic, how did it feel?

It felt like a hole in my side and then it felt like plummeting face first into the ice-cold ocean.

She’s a straight talker, the Titanic.

Alright, I said. Now let’s talk about rust. When my love leaves, I’m planning to weep stalactites from my chin. I will wear my sadness in long strands. Like you, I will be bearded by it.

Then I made a terrible noise. Eeeeeeeeeeeerkkkkkkkkkk! I’ve been practicing the sound of wrenching metal, I told her, from when my love leaves.

But you aren’t made of metal. Titanic said to me.

I’m a writer, I said, I can be made of anything.

Well then, be a writer. She said.

Be a writer? I paused, anemones between my toes. Okay. When my love leaves. I will start with SOS. I will Morse code odes as the whole world goes vertical. I will write nosedives as my torso splits in two.

And the next day I will write the stunned headlines, and the next day I will write the obituaries, and the next day I will write furious accusations, and the next day I will write lawsuits, and the next day I will write confessions of wrongdoing, and the next day I will write pardons, but I won’t really mean it, and the next day I will write sonnets, but they won’t fit the schema, and the next day I will write pleas, please, please come back. The next day I will write epitaphs, navigation maps, warnings for future generations about the hubris of human love. I will write quotas and queries and quizzes, I will write nonsense, I will write nonsense, I will write nonsense all the way down and no diving teams will find me, no robot arms will retrieve me in pieces, never will I be reassembled in plain air. No, I will remain whole, two miles down, with my suitcases strewn open, and in 100 years I will still be writing about this feeling, though my heart be a Picasso, though my heart be bearded at the bottom of the sea.

The Titanic let me cry for a while, my sobs echoing off her moldy mosaics.

Then she said: Girl, you’re too young for a beard like this. You’re never gonna get some if you rust over now.

I sniffled a little and scratched my name into the green slime of the tub.

The trouble with you humans is that you are so concerned with staying afloat. Go ahead, be gouged open by love. Gulp that saltwater, sink beneath the waves. You’re not a boat, you can go under and come up again, with those big old lungs of yours, those hard kicking legs.

And your heart, she said, that gargantuan ark, that floating hotel. Call it Unsinkable, though it is sinkable. Embark, embark.

There are enough ballrooms in you to dance with everyone you’ll ever love.

That’s what the Titanic told me this morning, me, lying next to her on the ocean floor.

There are enough ballrooms in you.

-

By Laura Lamb Brown-Lavolie from Alight: Best-Loved Poems from the 2013 Women of the World Poetry Slam.

[seasunandstar]

The trouble with you humans is that you are so concerned with staying afloat. Go ahead, be gouged open by love. Gulp that saltwater, sink beneath the waves. You’re not a boat, you can go under and come up again, with those big old lungs of yours, those hard kicking legs.

And your heart, she said, that gargantuan ark, that floating hotel. Call it Unsinkable, though it is sinkable. Embark, embark.

There are enough ballrooms in you to dance with everyone you’ll ever love.

That’s what the Titanic told me this morning, me, lying next to her on the ocean floor.

There are enough ballrooms in you.

-- From "On This the 100th Anniversary of the Sinking of the Titanic, We Reconsider the Buoyancy of the Human Heart", by Laura Lamb Brown-Lavolie

[verysium]

what do you read in your spare time? you’re one of the most eloquent users i know, id love to hear how you find the media you consume and what your favorites are

omg ei 😊 welcome back to the inbox! thank you for your sweet words although i'm probably not qualified enough to be considered the full definition of eloquent. i am going to preface this post by saying that i definitely don't read as much as i should, so this list is not going to be comprehensive whatsoever. the last time i even visited an in-person library was like half a decade ago, and since then my spare time has been nonexistent lmao. anyways, here are some of my favorite/most recent reads as listed by author:

POETRY

richard siken: i think siken is already well-known both in the literary world and in whatever booktok deems is popular culture. if you don't already know him though, he is best known for his poetry collection crush, which delves into themes of obsession, gay love, and violent eroticism. i actually read this chapbook unknowingly. as in i was hounding sketchy pdf download sites at 3 AM and saw a man with bloodied lips on the cover and decided to read it. he basically became my summer fever dream after that. the way he juxtaposes images is seamless, smoother than water. only richard siken can talk about violence without making it sound violent. i also enjoyed his other poetry collection war of the foxes, especially "portrait of fryderyk in shifting light." i think light is a common motif throughout most of his poems, and he manipulates it effortlessly. the most recent piece i read from him is "piano lesson." i have nothing left to say that he didn't already say, so i would just recommend reading it for yourself. he is the og big brain when it comes to word play.

ocean vuong: he's unforgettable, and i mean that literally because nobody forgets a person named ocean. time is a mother was exactly what the name suggests: an exploration of grief, loss, and the rewind of time after his mother's death. some of the poems are almost cinematic in quality. "künstlerroman" is my favorite because it feels exactly like watching a video tape in reverse. i think his most famous work is "someday i'll love ocean vuong." it was the first piece i ever read from him, and to this day, it remains my comfort poem.

silas denver melvin: i only recently discovered him through his chapbook grit. i think he's also on tumblr @/sweatermuppet. he writes a lot on the trans experience, and his work gives me a mix of southern gothic and country vibes. would definitely read his other publications if i had the time.

chen chen: one thing about chen chen is that he always comes to devour. my favorite works from him are "self-portrait as so much potential" and "song of the anti-sisyphus." you have to put on your thinking cap for some of his poems, but once you grasp the meaning, everything makes sense all at once.

franny choi: "disaster means without a star" was the entire inspiration behind my first rin fic. i relate to her more personally in regards to the diaspora experience, but her collections are worth reading in general because of the sheer quality.

pages matam: his poem "piñata" was what got me into slam poetry. his work mostly consists of political commentary which i feel is particularly relevant in today's social climate. "on learning america's english" also resonates with people who have encountered the entire losing/learning immigrant tongues experience.

laura lamb brown-lavolie: i've only read one spoken word poem from her, and tbh i only needed to read one. "on this the 100th anniversary of the sinking of the titanic, we reconsider the buoyancy of the human heart" is my two-headed calf poem. one day i will get this tattooed.

brendan constantine: once again, this was the result of me being chronically online coupled with the boredom of an august heat wave. i found "the opposites game" through TED. honestly, i was a bit unsure about it at first, but it's a cute little poem that makes you really delve into the intricacies of craft.

TEEN POETRY & PROSE

yasmeen khan: she could mouth her words onto every square inch of my body, and i would still be coming back for more. ingraining them into flesh is not enough. "movie stars" is by far my favorite work from her. she writes about femininity and womanhood so profoundly. it's tragic, but really i wouldn't have it end any other way.

kaya dierks: her writing is basically middle-of-nowhere small town stoner teenage life but personified. "crushed" is my favorite piece from her. the soundtrack for this work was definitely by ethel cain, and you cannot convince me otherwise.

FICTION

madeline miller: i was first introduced to her when i read the song of achilles. let's just say that book had me nonverbal for the greater half of three months. it was my metaphorical hatchet. i buried it once, and i never want to dig it up again. i read circe a few years later. the first time was during the blue hour at an airport, right between one red-eye flight and another transfer. i don't even remember that experience because i was heavily sleep-deprived. i read it again recently for a literature course, this time for academic analysis. overall, i enjoy the the heroine-centric narrative. typically, i'm a bit wary of novels with heavy feminist themes because they either project their agenda too strongly or they run the risk of misrepresentation. circe doesn't exactly have that problem. it was more about empowerment and less about exercising power over others.

charlotte brontë: as a historical figure, brontë was questionable, but jane eyre most certainly was not. that book rewired my brain, and that is saying something because i have never read any classic by choice. and it is so important to me that jane was the ugliest, plainest girl you could ever imagine. also cus i unironically enjoy angst, and this book was full of dramatic misunderstandings.

yoko ogawa: i love japanese literature, so there is no reason not to include this one here. "a peddler of tears" is one of my favorite short stories. i did not expect the ending at all, but it was welcome. something about violence, body gore, and dismemberment being framed as romantic and semi-erotic just gets to me. sign me the hell up. hotel iris is a hit-or-miss with some people. either you like the fact that art makes you uncomfortable or you shut it down completely. for me, i was alright with exploring some of its darker themes, but read at your own discretion.

NONFICTION

ross gay: he lives up to his name both in optimism and in carefree joy. probably one of my favorite creative nonfiction authors simply based off the accessibility of his writing style. easy to read and understand but still hits you with the full force of a semi-truck. i would recommend his book inciting joy. it's a collection of essays that delve into grief, but since this is ross gay, he makes it seem like a quintessential part of life.

paul kalanithi: sixteen-year-old me was mind blown by him cus before that doctors were shrewish old men with bald spots and sterile coats, not poetic surgeons who dissected the anatomy of word and recited t.s. eliot in the most heart-wrenching way possible. he is everything i want to become in both life and death. when breath becomes air literally does take your breath away.

[wateryrealm]

have you read 'On This the 100th Anniversary of the Sinking of the Titanic, We Reconsider the Buoyancy of the Human Heart' by Laura Lamb Brown-Lavolie?

i just finished reading it so thank you for sending it my way, i don’t think i’d have ever stumbled across it otherwise! i’m still in the midst of processing it and seeing how i feel about it, conversational tones always take me a while to get used to, but i like the optimism at its core :-)

[lentheric]

Poems that have connected with me in some way or another

About love and relationships

Having a coke with you- Frank O’Hara

Want- Joan Larkin

Chen Chen Summer was forever

I want to eat bugs with you underground- Julie Dano

Mountain Dew commercial disguised as love poem- Matthew Olzman

I carry your heart with me- E.E. Cummings

Warming her Pearls- Carol Ann Duffy

We have not long to love- Tennessee Williams

Come, and be my baby- Maya Angelou

Summer- Chen Chen

You up?- Rachel Taormino

History student falls in love with astrophysics student- Keaton St. James

Strawberry Moon- Matthew Dickman

A Complaint- William Wordsworth

Oh small sad ecstasy of love- Anne Carson

About grief and loss

Five stages of grief- Linda Pastan

In the end you get everything back (Liza Minnelli)- Jacob Schneiderman

A Meeting- Wendell Berry

Half-light- Frank Bidart

Life to the last drop- Mahmoud Darwish

John Wick is so tired Kyra Wilder

My dead friends- Marie Howe

Grief- Barbara Crooker

Time does not bring relief- Edna St. Vincent Millay

A possible exit- Jarrett Moseley

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone- W H Auden

About life and perspective

Meeting Point- Louis Macneice

The years- Alex Demitriov

Planet of Love- Richard Silken

July- Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz

Wear sunscreen- Mary Scmich

December- Michael Miller

Alone- Edgar Allen Poe

Other

Girls- Emily Moore

How to be a dog- Andrew Kane

Dead Rat- Mervyn Peake

On this the 100th anniversary of the sinking of the titanic- Laura Lamb Brown-Lavolie

[pantamallion]

Laura Lamb Brown-Lavolie vibes

I think sitting on the floor of the ocean for a few hours would fix me

[alevezadenaoser]

Para ser honesta, eu disse ao Titanic, meu amor está indo embora e temo que isso vá me destruir, então eu mergulhei até aqui.

Bem, entre, disse o Titanic, mas não tenho certeza se encontrá o que você está procurando.

Eu esperava que você me ensinasse a afundar, eu disse. Você, que passou um século debaixo d'água com 1.500 esqueletos no peito.

Não sei, disse o Titanic, estou meio destruído.

Exatamente! Eu disse: Eu também! Estou aqui para aprender a destroçar. Estou aqui para ser sua aprendiz! Grande senhor barbado, com sua arca gigantesca e seu hotel flutuante. Com salões de baile suficientes em você para dançar com todos que já amou.

Meu coração tem um iceberg com o nome dele, eu disse ao Titanic, então preciso de alguns conselhos.

Diga-me, você viu o iceberg chegando?

Sim, disse o Titanic.

E você navegou direto para ele?

Foi amor, disse Titanic.

E a banda continuou tocando? E o capitão ficou ao volante? Qual foi a sensação de engolir água do mar? Diga-me, Titanic, como você se sentiu?

Um buraco se abriu na minha lateral e então parecia que meu rosto estava despencando pela primeira vez no oceano gelado.

Ele é direto, o Titanic.

Tudo bem, eu disse. Agora vamos falar sobre ferrugem. Quando meu amor for embora, estou planejando chorar estalactites. Vou vestir minha tristeza em fios longos. Como você, eu serei suportada por isso. Então fiz um barulho terrível. Eeeeeeeeeeeeeerrrkkkkkkkkkkk! Tenho praticado o som de metal violento, disse a ele, para quando meu amor for embora.

Mas você não é feita de metal. Titanic disse para mim.

Eu sou uma escritora, eu disse, posso ser feita de qualquer coisa.

Pois bem, seja uma escritora então . Ele disse.

Seja uma escritora? Fiz uma pausa, anêmonas entre meus dedos.

OK. Quando meu amor for embora, vou começar com SOS. Escreverei em código Morse enquanto o mundo todo fica vertical. Vou escrever mergulhos de nariz enquanto meu torso se divide em dois. E no dia seguinte escreverei as manchetes atordoadas, e no dia seguinte escreverei os obituários, e no dia seguinte escreverei acusações furiosas, e no dia seguinte escreverei processos judiciais, e no dia seguinte escreverei confissões das minhas transgressões, e no dia seguinte vou escrever perdões, mas não vou realmente dizer isso, e no dia seguinte vou escrever sonetos, mas eles não vão se encaixar no esquema, e no dia seguinte vou escrever súplicas , por favor, volte por favor. No dia seguinte, escreverei epitáfios, mapas de navegação, alertando para as gerações futuras sobre a arrogância do amor humano. Vou escrever cotas, perguntas e questionários, vou escrever bobagens, vou escrever bobagens, vou escrever bobagens até o fim e nenhuma equipe de mergulho me encontrará, nenhum braço de robô me recuperará em pedaços. nunca serei remontada e jogada no ar. Não, ficarei inteira, três quilômetros abaixo, com minhas malas abertas, e em 100 anos ainda estarei escrevendo sobre esse sentimento, embora meu coração seja um Picasso, embora meu coração esteja barbado no fundo do mar.

O Titanic me deixou chorar um pouco, meus soluços ecoando em seus mosaicos mofados. Então ele disse: Garota, você é muito jovem para uma barba como essa. Você não vai conseguir se enferrujar agora.

O problema com vocês, humanos, é que estão muito preocupados em se manter boiando.  Vá em frente, seja aberta pelo amor.  Engula aquela água salgada, afunde sob as ondas. Você não é um barco, pode afundar e subir de novo, com aqueles seus grandes e velhos pulmões, aquelas pernas duras e fortes. E seu coração, ele disse, essa arca gigantesca, esse hotel flutuante. Chame-o de inafundável, embora seja afundável.

Embarque, embarque. Há salões de baile suficientes em você para dançar com todos que você vai amar.

Isso foi o que o Titanic me disse esta manhã, eu, deitada ao lado dele no fundo do oceano.

Existem salões de baile suficientes em você.

Laura Lamb Brown-Lavolie

[stagnantheart]

some responses from my “favorite poem” google form <3

“The Rival” by Sylvia Plath

“On This the 100th Anniversary of the Sinking of the Titanic, We Reconsider the Buoyancy of the Human Heart” by Laura Lamb Brown-Lavolie

“61 Trees” by Ada Limón

Interactive :: House Saints by Hala Alyan

“Driving, Not Washing” by Richard Siken

“Endymion” by John Keats

[your-ace-cousin-clover]

Poems being featured in my Ted Lasso fic

(I'm keeping a list cause I tend to forget stuff lol)

From Scene 3

1. Song by Allen Ginsberg

2. On This the 100th Anniversary of the Sinking of the Titanic, We Reconsider the Buoyancy of the Human Heart by Laura Lamb Brown -Lavolie

3. Wishbone by Richard Siken

[73chn1c0l0rr3v3l]

The trouble with you humans is that you are so concerned with staying afloat. Go ahead, be gouged open by love. Gulp that saltwater, sink beneath the waves. You’re not a boat, you can go under and come up again, with those big old lungs of yours, those hard kicking legs.

And your heart, she said, that gargantuan ark, that floating hotel. Call it Unsinkable, though it is sinkable. Embark, embark.

There are enough ballrooms in you to dance with everyone you’ll ever love.

On This the 100th Anniversary of the Sinking of the Titanic, We Reconsider the Buoyancy of the Human Heart, Laura Lamb Brown-Lavolie

hey reblog this with a piece of your favorite poem, please

[imissthembutitwasntadisaster]

Be a writer? I paused, anemones between my toes. Okay. When my love leaves. I will start with SOS. I will Morse code odes as the whole world goes vertical. I will write nosedives as my torso splits in two. And the next day I will write the stunned headlines, and the next day I will write the obituaries, and the next day I will write furious accusations, and the next day I will write lawsuits, and the next day I will write confessions of wrongdoing, and the next day I will write pardons, but I won’t really mean it, and the next day I will write sonnets, but they won’t fit the schema, and the next day I will write pleas, please, please come back. The next day I will write epitaphs, navigation maps, warnings for future generations about the hubris of human love. I will write quotas and queries and quizzes, I will write nonsense, I will write nonsense, I will write nonsense all the way down and no diving teams will find me, no robot arms will retrieve me in pieces, never will I be reassembled in plain air. No, I will remain whole, two miles down, with my suitcases strewn open, and in 100 years I will still be writing about this feeling, though my heart be a Picasso, though my heart be bearded at the bottom of the sea.

On This the 100th Anniversary of the Sinking of the Titanic, We Reconsider the Buoyancy of the Human Heart, Laura Lamb Brown-Lavolie

[chryso-poeia]

On This the 100th Anniversary of the Sinking of the Titanic, We Reconsider the Buoyancy of the Human Heart

By Laura Lamb Brown-Lavolie from Alight: Best-Loved Poems from the 2013 Women of the World Poetry Slam.

-

”What’s wrong? Titanic asked me this morning, when she found me lying on the ocean floor with all my suitcases strewn open.

Oh, I dunno, I moaned. I was looking through National Geographic and saw some pictures of you, and thought I might come have a chat. You looked great, by the way, in the pictures.

Me? No. Titanic smiled. If anything I seem to have become a Picasso. And I have a beard.

It was true; she looked more like a collage of a ship. Strangely two-dimensional, in a crater of her own making: French doors, boilers, railings every which way. And she did have a bit of a beard-rust icicles hanging in red strands from her iron engines.

Sitting up in my own little crater, I sort-of blushed.

To be honest, I told Titanic, My honey’s leaving town soon and I’m afraid it’s gonna wreck me, so I dove down here.

Well come on in, Titanic said, but I’m not sure I’ve got what you’re looking for.

So in I climbed, through a window between two rust stalactites, and began to pace her great promenade. (Which should have been awesome, by the way — walking by the ghosts of all those waving handkerchiefs — except that I was in that feeling-sorry-for-yourself state where every hallway is the hallway of your own wretched mind, every ghost your own ghost, so I didn’t take a good look around.)

When I got to the Turkish baths, I sat on the edge of a barnacled tub and watched weird crabs scrabble at my feet.

I was hoping you’d teach me how to sink, I said. You who have spent a century underwater with 1500 skeletons in your chest.

I don’t know, said Titanic, I’m kind of a wreck.

Exactly! I said, Me too! I’m here to apprentice myself to wreckage. I’m here to apprentice myself to you! Great bearded lady, gargantuan ark, you floating hotel. With enough ballrooms in you to dance with everyone I’ve ever loved.

My heart has an iceberg with its name on it, I told Titanic, so I need your advice. Tell me, did you see the iceberg coming?

I did, Titanic said.

And you sailed right into it?

It was love, Titanic said.

And the band just kept playing? And the captain stayed at the wheel? What did it feel like to swallow seawater? Tell me, Titanic, how did it feel?

It felt like a hole in my side and then it felt like plummeting face first into the ice-cold ocean.

She’s a straight talker, the Titanic.

Alright, I said. Now let’s talk about rust. When my love leaves, I’m planning to weep stalactites from my chin. I will wear my sadness in long strands. Like you, I will be bearded by it.

Then I made a terrible noise. Eeeeeeeeeeeerkkkkkkkkkk! I’ve been practicing the sound of wrenching metal, I told her, from when my love leaves.

But you aren’t made of metal. Titanic said to me.

I’m a writer, I said, I can be made of anything.

Well then, be a writer. She said.

Be a writer? I paused, anemones between my toes. Okay. When my love leaves. I will start with SOS. I will Morse code odes as the whole world goes vertical. I will write nosedives as my torso splits in two.

And the next day I will write the stunned headlines, and the next day I will write the obituaries, and the next day I will write furious accusations, and the next day I will write lawsuits, and the next day I will write confessions of wrongdoing, and the next day I will write pardons, but I won’t really mean it, and the next day I will write sonnets, but they won’t fit the schema, and the next day I will write pleas, please, please come back. The next day I will write epitaphs, navigation maps, warnings for future generations about the hubris of human love. I will write quotas and queries and quizzes, I will write nonsense, I will write nonsense, I will write nonsense all the way down and no diving teams will find me, no robot arms will retrieve me in pieces, never will I be reassembled in plain air. No, I will remain whole, two miles down, with my suitcases strewn open, and in 100 years I will still be writing about this feeling, though my heart be a Picasso, though my heart be bearded at the bottom of the sea.

The Titanic let me cry for a while, my sobs echoing off her moldy mosaics.

Then she said: Girl, you’re too young for a beard like this. You’re never gonna get some if you rust over now.

I sniffled a little and scratched my name into the green slime of the tub.

The trouble with you humans is that you are so concerned with staying afloat. Go ahead, be gouged open by love. Gulp that saltwater, sink beneath the waves. You’re not a boat, you can go under and come up again, with those big old lungs of yours, those hard kicking legs.

And your heart, she said, that gargantuan ark, that floating hotel. Call it Unsinkable, though it is sinkable. Embark, embark.

There are enough ballrooms in you to dance with everyone you’ll ever love.

That’s what the Titanic told me this morning, me, lying next to her on the ocean floor.

There are enough ballrooms in you.”

[astrabear]

(excerpt, you should read the whole thing)

The trouble with you humans is that you are so concerned with staying afloat. Go ahead, be gouged open by love. Gulp that saltwater, sink beneath the waves. You’re not a boat, you can go under and come up again, with those big old lungs of yours, those hard kicking legs.

And your heart, she said, that gargantuan ark, that floating hotel. Call it Unsinkable, though it is sinkable. Embark, embark.

There are enough ballrooms in you to dance with everyone you’ll ever love.

That’s what the Titanic told me this morning, me, lying next to her on the ocean floor.

There are enough ballrooms in you.

[tethrras]

On This the 100th Anniversary of the Sinking of the Titanic, We Reconsider the Buoyancy of the Human Heart

By Laura Lamb Brown-Lavolie

What’s wrong? Titanic asked me this morning, when she found me lying on the ocean floor with all my suitcases strewn open.

Oh, I dunno, I moaned. I was looking through National Geographic and saw some pictures of you, and thought I might come have a chat. You looked great, by the way, in the pictures.

Me? No. Titanic smiled. If anything I seem to have become a Picasso. And I have a beard.

It was true; she looked more like a collage of a ship. Strangely two-dimensional, in a crater of her own making: French doors, boilers, railings every which way. And she did have a bit of a beard-rust icicles hanging in red strands from her iron engines.

Sitting up in my own little crater, I sort-of blushed.

To be honest, I told Titanic, My honey’s leaving town soon and I’m afraid it’s gonna wreck me, so I dove down here.

Well come on in, Titanic said, but I’m not sure I’ve got what you’re looking for.

So in I climbed, through a window between two rust stalactites, and began to pace her great promenade. (Which should have been awesome, by the way — walking by the ghosts of all those waving handkerchiefs — except that I was in that feeling-sorry-for-yourself state where every hallway is the hallway of your own wretched mind, every ghost your own ghost, so I didn’t take a good look around.)

When I got to the Turkish baths, I sat on the edge of a barnacled tub and watched weird crabs scrabble at my feet.

I was hoping you’d teach me how to sink, I said. You who have spent a century underwater with 1500 skeletons in your chest.

I don’t know, said Titanic, I’m kind of a wreck.

Exactly! I said, Me too! I’m here to apprentice myself to wreckage. I’m here to apprentice myself to you! Great bearded lady, gargantuan ark, you floating hotel. With enough ballrooms in you to dance with everyone I’ve ever loved.

My heart has an iceberg with its name on it, I told Titanic, so I need your advice. Tell me, did you see the iceberg coming?

I did, Titanic said.

And you sailed right into it?

It was love, Titanic said.

And the band just kept playing? And the captain stayed at the wheel? What did it feel like to swallow seawater? Tell me, Titanic, how did it feel?

It felt like a hole in my side and then it felt like plummeting face first into the ice-cold ocean.

She’s a straight talker, the Titanic.

Alright, I said. Now let’s talk about rust. When my love leaves, I’m planning to weep stalactites from my chin. I will wear my sadness in long strands. Like you, I will be bearded by it.

Then I made a terrible noise.  Eeeeeeeeeeeerkkkkkkkkkk! I’ve been practicing the sound of wrenching metal, I told her, from when my love leaves.

But you aren’t made of metal. Titanic said to me.

I’m a writer, I said, I can be made of anything.

Well then, be a writer. She said.

Be a writer? I paused, anemones between my toes. Okay. When my love leaves. I will start with SOS. I will Morse code odes as the whole world goes vertical. I will write nosedives as my torso splits in two.

And the next day I will write the stunned headlines, and the next day I will write the obituaries, and the next day I will write furious accusations, and the next day I will write lawsuits, and the next day I will write confessions of wrongdoing, and the next day I will write pardons, but I won’t really mean it, and the next day I will write sonnets, but they won’t fit the schema, and the next day I will write pleas, please, please come back. The next day I will write epitaphs, navigation maps, warnings for future generations about the hubris of human love. I will write quotas and queries and quizzes, I will write nonsense, I will write nonsense, I will write nonsense all the way down and no diving teams will find me, no robot arms will retrieve me in pieces, never will I be reassembled in plain air. No, I will remain whole, two miles down, with my suitcases strewn open, and in 100 years I will still be writing about this feeling, though my heart be a Picasso, though my heart be bearded at the bottom of the sea.

The Titanic let me cry for a while, my sobs echoing off her moldy mosaics.

Then she said: Girl, you’re too young for a beard like this. You’re never gonna get some if you rust over now.

I sniffled a little and scratched my name into the green slime of the tub.

The trouble with you humans is that you are so concerned with staying afloat. Go ahead, be gouged open by love. Gulp that saltwater, sink beneath the waves. You’re not a boat, you can go under and come up again, with those big old lungs of yours, those hard kicking legs.

And your heart, she said, that gargantuan ark, that floating hotel. Call it Unsinkable, though it is sinkable. Embark, embark.

There are enough ballrooms in you to dance with everyone you’ll ever love.

That’s what the Titanic told me this morning, me, lying next to her on the ocean floor.

There are enough ballrooms in you.

[alevezadenaoser]

O que há de errado?

O Titanic me perguntou esta manhã, quando ele me encontrou deitada no fundo do oceano com todas as minhas malas abertas.

Ah, não sei, gemi, estava olhando no National Geographic e vi algumas fotos suas e pensei em entrar e conversar. você estava ótimo, aliás, nas fotos.

Eu? Não. Titanic sorriu. No mínimo, parece que me tornei um Picasso. e eu tenho uma barba.

Era verdade; ele parecia mais uma colagem de um navio. Estranhamente bidimensional, em uma cratera de sua própria fabricação: portas francesas, caldeiras, grades em todas as direções. E ele tinha um pedaço de gelo com ferrugem de barba pendurado em fios vermelhos de seus motores de ferro. sentando em minha própria cratera, eu meio que corei.

Para ser honesta, eu disse ao Titanic, meu amor está saindo da cidade em breve e temo que isso vá me destruir, então eu mergulhei aqui.

Bem, entre, disse o Titanic, mas não tenho certeza se encontrei o que você está procurando.

Então subi no meio, por uma janela entre duas estalactites enferrujadas, e comecei a andar em seu grande passeio. (o que teria sido incrível, aliás - andar pelos fantasmas de todos aqueles lenços agitando - exceto que eu estava naquele estado de sentir pena de você mesmo onde o próprio corredor é o corredor de sua própria mente miserável, cada fantasma meu próprio fantasma, então não dei uma boa olhada em volta.)

Quando cheguei aos banhos turcos, sentei-me na beira de uma banheira de barnacled e observei caranguejos estranhos arranharem meus pés.

Eu esperava que você me ensinasse a afundar, eu disse. Você, que passou um século debaixo d'água com 1.500 esqueletos no peito.

Não sei, disse o Titanic, estou meio destruído.

Exatamente! Eu disse: Eu também! Estou aqui para aprender a destroçar. Estou aqui para ser seu aprendiz! Grande senhor barbado, arca gigantesca, seu hotel flutuante. Com salões de baile suficientes em você para dançar com todos que eu já amei.

Meu coração tem um iceberg com o nome dele, eu disse ao Titanic, então preciso de alguns conselhos.

Diga-me, você viu o iceberg chegando?

Sim, disse Titanic.

E você navegou direto para ele?

Foi amor, disse Titanic.

E a banda continuou tocando? E o capitão ficou ao volante? Qual foi a sensação de engolir água do mar? Diga-me, Titanic, como você se sentiu?

Pareceu um buraco na minha lateral e então parecia que meu rosto estava despencando pela primeira vez no oceano gelado.

Ela é uma pessoa direta, o Titanic.

Tudo bem, eu disse. Agora vamos falar sobre ferrugem. Quando meu amor for embora, estou planejando chorar estalactites do meu queixo. Vou vestir minha tristeza em fios longos. Como você, eu serei suportado por isso. Então fiz um barulho terrível. Eeeeeeeeeeeeeerrrkkkkkkkkkkk! Tenho praticado o som de metal violento, disse a ele, para quando meu amor for embora.

Mas você não é feito de metal. Titanic disse para mim.

Eu sou uma escritora, disse eu, posso ser feita de qualquer coisa.

Pois bem, seja uma escritora então . Ele disse.

Seja uma escritora? Fiz uma pausa, anêmonas entre meus dedos.

OK. Quando meu amor for embora, vou começar com SOS. Escreverei em código Morse enquanto o mundo todo fica vertical. Vou escrever mergulhos de nariz enquanto meu torso se divide em dois. E no dia seguinte escreverei as manchetes atordoadas, e no dia seguinte escreverei os obituários, e no dia seguinte escreverei acusações furiosas, e no dia seguinte escreverei processos judiciais, e no dia seguinte escreverei confissões das minhas transgressões, e no dia seguinte vou escrever perdões, mas não vou realmente dizer isso, e no dia seguinte vou escrever sonetos, mas eles não vão se encaixar no esquema, e no dia seguinte vou escrever súplicas , por favor, volte por favor. No dia seguinte, escreverei epitáfios, mapas de navegação, alertando para as gerações futuras sobre a arrogância do amor humano. Vou escrever cotas, perguntas e questionários, vou escrever bobagens, vou escrever bobagens, vou escrever bobagens até o fim e nenhuma equipe de mergulho me encontrará, nenhum braço de robô me recuperará em pedaços. nunca serei remontado e jogada no ar. Não, ficarei inteira, três quilômetros abaixo, com minhas malas abertas, e em 100 anos ainda estarei escrevendo sobre esse sentimento, embora meu coração seja um Picasso, embora meu coração esteja barbado no fundo do mar.

O Titanic me deixou chorar um pouco, meus soluços ecoando em seus mosaicos mofados.

Então ele disse: Garota, você é muito jovem para uma barba como essa. Você nunca vai conseguir se enferrujar agora.

Funguei um pouco e risquei meu nome na gosma verde da banheira.

O problema com vocês, humanos, é que estão muito preocupados em se manter boiando.

Vá em frente, seja aberto pelo amor.

Engula aquela água salgada, afunde sob as ondas.

Você não é um barco, pode afundar e subir de novo, com aqueles seus grandes e velhos pulmões, aquelas pernas duras e fortes.

E seu coração, ele disse, aquela arca gigantesca, aquele hotel flutuante.

Chame-o de inafundável, embora seja afundável.

Embarque, embarque.

Há salões de baile suficientes em você para dançar com todos que você vai amar.

Isso é o que o Titanic me disse esta manhã, eu, deitado ao lado dela no fundo do oceano. Existem salões de baile suficientes em você

Laura Lamb Brown-Lavolie.