September 2011
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Listen
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“The truly creative mind in any field is no more than this: A human creature born...”
– Pearl Buck
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Dear east-coasters,
If you live near Buffalo, Somerville, Cambridge/Boston, Providence or Cleveland/Pittsburg, go to The Detroit Party Marching Band show, and make sure my boyfriend is safe on his tour. And also just enjoy their music because it actually is terrific.
www.facebook.com/detroitpartymarchingband
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I want mail. I don’t even mind what it is, really. It can be lists of complaints, or a postcard, or a screenplay, or love poems or music or a drawing, or a message in a bottle. I just miss getting letters. Let me know if you want to be pen pals.
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Someone ask me stupid questions until I fall asleep or decide to be productive.
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I’ll follow you
just like a child
into the woods
into the wild
there’s nothing left
to dwell upon
what’s left of me
has been and gone
and I am old
and life is new
there is no place
I’m headed to
the road is long
and we all fear
the sky’s the limit
but it’s near.
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“Can you understand? Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me...”
– Sylvia Plath
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“‘Perche’, perche’, Signor,
Ah, perche’ me ne rimuneri...”
– Augusten Burroughs
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Things that make me cry.
Song.
Shoes.
Doors.
Tree stumps.
Thoughts.
Skin.
Happiness.
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“How memories lie to us. How time coats the ordinary with gold. How it breaks the...”
– Henry Rollins
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“And I will get lonely and gasp for air, and send your name up from my lips like...”
– The Mountain Goats
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It’s so strange that after somebody dies, they’ll never again be a “me” or an “I” or a “you,” unless somebody’s faking.
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C'est mercredi.
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, I wake up at eight fifteen. I get dressed, I maybe drink a small glass of juice, I gather my things, and I walk under the overcast sky to my stop on fourteen mile, near the telephone pole Michelle and I painted. It was the middle of the night when it happened, and very cold; we’d found the several cans of bright-colored housepaint from her...
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“From my rotting body, flowers shall grow, and I am in them, and that is...”
– Edvard Munch
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“We are writing… We are writing… We are writing… We are...”
– The Book of Antecedents
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andrewharlow:
Thursday night classics with...
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Stranger: You can choose not to be a whisper in human memory, rather, a boisterous shout. A roar.
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