“I wish I had ideas.
I really need your help.
Pretend I’m your rabbit.
Your piano recital.
The ghost that makes you write
whatever you want.
Pretend I’m whatever you want.
I’m going to imagine you’re a woman
staring out a kitchen window
hands and face
covered in suds.
Here is my sputtering match:
we do terrible things in the name of love.
Picture me punching through seven mirrors.
Picture everyone you know
punching through seven mirrors.
Picture the Power Goddess
descending from the sky
and placing a wreath of basil on your head.
Now open your eyes.
Not those eyes.
The eyes inside you.”—Ben Mirov, Candles (via kdecember)
“Remember Tilda Swinton in 2008 dressing herself in Lanvin??? With like no makeup??? This is an end goal. Look at this frumpy glamour. The ascension. I remember watching her so closely all the time. Everyone was made up very nicely and then she walked up on stage looking like a weird angel in a silk trash bag smiling and giving no fucks. She swallowed up all possibility of looking not good with her supreme confidence in herself that it just looks perfect. It’s perfect! It couldn’t be anything other than perfect. The clothing and body as one thing, the person beyond all else. It’s beautiful. It’s always so beautiful.”—nope.
“They have photographed the brain and here is the picture: it is full of branches, as I always suspected. Each time you arrive, the electricity of seeing you is a huge tree lumbering through my skull, the roots waving. I touch you, and I am created in you somewhere as a complex filament of light. You rest on me and my shoulder holds your heavy unbelievable skull, crowded with radiant suns, a new planet, the people submerged in you a lost civilization I can never excavate. My hands trace the contours of a total universe — its different colors, flowers, its undiscovered animals, violent or serene, its other air, its claws, its paradise rivers.”—Margaret Atwood, I Was Reading A Scientific Article (via chrstn)
“Only be friends with people you actually like.”—Don’t let social anxiety trap you in your hotel room at AWP. At Tin House, Courtney Maumgives advice for how to make and keep your writer friends in an essay aptly titled, “How Not to Hate Your Friends.” Pair with: Our dispatch from AWP 2013 to know what you’re in for. (via millionsmillions)
“I want a man who rides a motorcycle and when he’s not on a motorcycle he’s on a skateboard and when he’s not riding his skateboard he’s playing bass and when he’s not playing bass he’s going down on me.”—Hannah, describing the dream (via electrichoney)
“I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure of the landscape—the loneliness of it, the dead feeling of winter. Something waits beneath it, the whole story doesn’t show.”—Andrew Wyeth (via mashamorevna)
“Ask much, the voice suggested, and I startled.
Feeling my body like the trembling body of a horse
tied to its tree while the strange noise
passes over its ears.
I who in extremity had always wanted less,”—Jane Hirshfield, opening lines to “Ask Much, the Voice Suggested,” from After: Poems (HarperPerennial, 2006)
“I never expect anyone to agree with me in liking the books I like, because I rather want novels to depress me, and I don’t much mind whether I like the people in them or not. So I expect the books I write to be depressing and full of horrid monsters.”—Virginia Woolf, in a letter to Daphne Sanger dated 27 May 1925 (via violentwavesofemotion)
I haven’t talked about my personal life at length in a while, but that’s because my relationship with Ben is 98% grinning at each other and sighing about how happy we are, and like ugh no one wants to hear that shit.
But can I just say fuck humility for 5 minutes, because I want to quickly document that I got a stellar yearly review at my job on Friday, was recently nominated for employee of the quarter, live in an adorable apartment in Brooklyn with my boyfriend who cooks and washes all the dishes and carries all the laundry and cracks me up and tells me multiple times a day how sexy I am. I have an entire bookshelf full of new books to read and a very well-curated 500 film netflix queue, have been making time to hit the gym on a regular basis, put money in my savings account every week, and found out today that I’ll be getting a sizable tax return.
Also, my friends are really cool, I’ve been making an effort to hang out with new people, I already have plans for 4 long weekend trips this spring/summer/fall, my new haircut still totally suits me, and I’m becoming a pretty good cook.
There have been so many times in my life when I’ve felt like a failure - when I’ve measured my success in test scores and pounds on a scale and made myself miserable by comparing myself to other people. And this isn’t to say that I don’t have days when I feel inadequate, ugly, or deficient. But I would be remiss to let time pass by without acknowledging my happiness, my good fortune, my hard work, and the kindness of other people that has helped me to find my way here.
Didn’t mean to make this some sort of #grateful post, but whatever whatever I love this city, this life, these Sunday afternoons with my laptop in my lap and beef carbonnade simmering in the slow cooker and dancing with Ben in our pretty little home. He spins me and I say “that was a really good spin!” and he says “yeah, I know.”
“How has she become one of those people who wears yoga pants all day? She used to make fun of those people. With their happiness maps and their gratitude journals and their bags made out of recycled tire treads. But now it seems possible that the truth about getting older is that there are fewer and fewer things to make fun of until finally there is nothing you are sure you will never be.”—Jenny Offill, Dept. of Speculation (via losertakesall)
“It is only for a week or two that a broken chair or a door off its hinges is recognised for such. Soon, imperceptibly, it changes its character, and becomes the chair which is always left in the corner, the door which does not shut. A pin, fastening a torn valance, rusts itself into the texture of the stuff, is irremovable; the cracked dessert place and the stewpan with a hole in it, set aside until the man who rivets and solders should chance to come that way, become part of the dresser, are taken down and dusted and put back, and when the man arrives no one remembers them as things in need of repair. Five large keys rest inside the best soup-tureen, scrupulously preserved though no one knows what it was they once opened, and the pastry-cutter is there too, little missed, for the teacup without a handle has taken its place.”—Sylvia Townsend Warner, “The Salutation” (sequel to Mr. Fortune’s Maggot)