Drank wine and ate fries on a Brooklyn bar rooftop with Lily tonight and we discussed Important things like whether or not we believe in soul mates (we don’t) and about cancer and lonely parents and love and which coworkers we would fire, if given the opportunity, and I ended the night by kind of shouting at her “DON’T DIE WITH ANSWERS INSIDE OF YOU” and I just feel like it all encapsulated our friendship pretty well.
Guys why am I suddenly SO INTO Hershey’s chocolate bars? Like, keep all your artisanal chocolate with 1 trillion % pure cocoa and sea salt and notes of earth and tobacco or whatever. I just want the plainest, most childhood halloween candy chocolate bar I can get my hands on.
“you are a new
kind of body
made out of glass
If you lie down
on the thick carpet
in my parents’ living room
I promise not to break you
I would like to shine
a flashlight into your chest
Your heart is forty-two cherry
Lifesavers stuck together
in the shape of a fish heart
If I was a glass-bottom boat
we could drift real slow
downriver to Vicksburg
We could do a lot of things
real slow if you like”—Nate Slawson, Sam (via kdecember)
“But then, of course, there is the simple reality of living. Standing in the Trader Joe’s line tonight, trying to look placid and sober after four beers in the sun, I had the sudden, watery feeling that I’d probably be much the same anywhere. The details would change, there would be gas and parking, or Euros and visas, and yet, always Sunday nights. All lonely and sorrowful, the sun setting no matter what. The cashiers at whatever store, wherever it is, waving me toward them with the same bored hands, me blinking at them slowly and saying, “I can just put that in my bag. I’m not going far.””—O Pioneer!: Los Angeles (via antbf)
I don’t feel like myself so I empty the trash in the bedroom and then I put on my favorite dress. It’s just a plain, cheap black dress from Old Navy and the zipper is kind of screwed up and it shows my bra, but it’s still my favorite because it’s simple and comfortable. The skirt kind of swirls when I turn.
I don’t feel like myself so I play my old iPod. It has all the songs I listened to in college and high school. Songs from mixes from old friends and ex-boyfriends and former selves.
I feel like I want someone to say kind things to me. I feel like I want to eat a lot of hummus and drink a lot of cold white wine. I feel like my hair needs to be washed. My shin is messed up where I fell over the weekend on the trail at Lake George.
Ben’s baking vegetables in the oven and the place smells warm and oniony. I’m humming along with a song I danced to seven years ago, at a concert in Canada. I’m trying to remember what it feels like to not constantly tear myself down. I’m trying and coming up empty, empty, empty.
“i came back to new york that night, watched the sky turn blue and then black from the train window, and walked back to my room still carrying that breeze that i felt throughout the day with me. it’s hard not to be overwhelmed in manhattan - especially when there’s such a thin fabric between myself and the environment. but the breeze has a way of reminding me that there’s expanse, somewhere. maybe not here in the east village, with all its two a.m. third ave drunk blue button down boy hollering, but somewhere. when i feel the direction of the breeze, when i can feel the city falling clack-click right into itself, when we all seem to move in tune with one another — it’s enough to make me forget all the ways in which this place keeps trying to ruin me. all these wonderful days. all the thunder, the thick rain. the heavy clouds releasing and wringing us all out. to sit on a roof watching manhattan from across the water, arms around my legs, chin on my knee, stoned and a little cold in all of that three a.m. with such wonderful, genuine company, my heart full of whatever hearts gets full of these days — to really feel that open sky and to feel, after so many months of me really killing myself over this and that, after having spent so many months fighting myself, to have these moments of happiness with people i love — what more could i want, truly. i am happy and full of movement and all around me are people that have my heart. july keeps moving sweetly into itself, and as long as there are people who i love and who love me scattered across this globe, as long as those old subway carriages with the orange and yellow plastic and faux wooden walls are still around, as long as i have heart-folks to sit and talk to until dawn, who will lay with me in bed all tangled up and sweet until the sky turns its buttery blue, i’ll be happy. in the heart of my heart, i know that these days can’t last forever, that one day i’ll have to feel again, to encounter the depth of me in all of its magnificent and tangled, awful, awful fucked up terror — but for now let me just lay here, hydrated and full of love, heat rising from the tops of my hands like music. i am exhausted all the time, and my heart is so full, and my eyelids have been heavy for days, but i’m happy. i’m working six days a week, and rarely have a moment to myself, but let me just say - i’m happy.”—NOUNSCAPE
“I often thought that if I had had to live in the trunk of a dead tree, with nothing to do but look up at the sky flowing overhead, little by little I would have gotten used to it.”—Albert Camus, from The Stranger (via violentwavesofemotion)
“Do they sense it, these dead writers, when their books are read? Does a pinprick of light appear in their darkness? Is their soul stirred by the feather touch of another mind reading theirs? I do hope so.”—Diane Setterfield, The Thirteenth Tale (via bibliophilebunny)
“If you’re feeling small today I dare you to sit up straighter, look someone who scares you directly in the eye, take up room at the dinner table, make yourself bigger, when ‘sorry’ laps at the back of your tongue, tries to pick up after you, remind yourself that your existence doesn’t demand an apology, that you are allowed to make mess and take up space, do not be afraid to expand. Every single goddamn minute. Expand, expand, expand”—Femme Fatale (x)
“Often a man wishes to be alone and a girl wishes to be alone too and if they love each other they are jealous of that in each other, but I can truly say we never felt that. We could feel alone when we were together, alone against the others. It has only happened to me like that once.”—Ernest Hemingway, from A Farewell To Arms (via violentwavesofemotion)
“I think living in New York City is an endless cycle of feeling like it’s defeated you, like you’re nothing, and feeling like you’ve made it, you’ve triumphed. And you can’t feel either for too long before the other comes back again.”—Mal of America:
“The thing I love most about reading poetry and also writing it is that there’s this sense that maybe there is an answer and yet we know on some level that the answer is our own, that we project and inject those secrets and mysteries and answers in any text. Like religion. Like life. Poetry is ours and not ours.”—Lisa Marie Basile, interviewed by Amelia Shroyer for Huffington Post (via bostonpoetryslam)
Ben and I mop the floor, using the bathtub for a bucket. We fill it a few inches high, stirring in the Murphy Oil Soap. I play Billy Joel on the portable speaker and my heart aches, a deep nostalgic ache. The nostalgia is for my childhood, Billy Joel playing over my dad’s big old speakers, Mom shooing us out of the piney-clean kitchen, and also a sort of nostalgia in advance for this life we have right now - these are the days to hold onto, ‘cause we won’t although we’ll want to - as I imagine myself in the next phase of my life, whatever that will be, trying to remember this time.
I don’t want to forget this, Ben and me, slow dancing, teasing, the way I run my hands over his freshly trimmed beard and tell him it’s the perfect length, don’t grow another centimeter, stay like this, like this. I nap on top of the duvet, comforted knowing he’s nearby in the living room, cheering aloud over a soccer game, while here in the bedroom, soft piano music plinks out a lullaby like rain on a lake.
Next weekend we are going on a short hiking and camping trip with my dad. I already have the packing list. I can’t wait to show him how the woods unfurls itself for you as you climb deep into its belly, how at the end of a long day it swaddles you in quiet. We will make a fire, the 3 of us, and cook hotdogs and crack jokes. I have never invited another boy into my life like this. Growing up, hiking trips were almost a sacred thing between my dad and me. But there was no part of me that hesitated in inviting Ben. No need for pause at all.
I love him. I want to show him everything that means something to me.
I feel like a failure and a fraud when I don’t have the answers.
Who am I to teach? To lecture, to manage, to give advice? Just a twenty-something baby with bad posture and a too-tight blouse. A coworker calls me “sweetheart” and I’m ashamed at what a relief it is to be talked down to again.
I was a bossy little kid. That version of me would know how to fake it. She had confidence down to the end of her ponytail. Then suddenly I was twelve - too tall for my age, with big, unhideable breasts. I had forgotten how to talk back.
I don’t remember ever being the pretty sixteen, leggy in cutoff shorts and a mischievous smile. Instead I remember getting my period in ballet class the blood blooming between my thighs on my pale pink tights. I remember the way my tank top would ride up accidentally and expose my smooth, white stomach, and how a boy in school told me to “cover up” and I did, cheeks flaming.
In high school I made study guides, typed up and memorizable. In college, I begged friends to teach me how to flirt, but found that it was a disappointingly uncopyable thing. At every stage of life, I find myself graceless and flailing.
I still feel like that twelve and sixteen and twenty year old girl. Stoop-shouldered and shy, pink-cheeked and exposed, struggling and posturing and taking notes. These days there are no textbooks to run my highlighter across, no wizened, silver-haired professors who can open their mouths and expound for two hours at a time. Now there is only a big world of unpleasable people and the same old bathroom stalls in which to escape.
“i think a great deal about my wants; they are simple. mostly they revolve around new york city and writing there. they involve some measure of love, too. and when i was in france everything seemed impossibly far away and simply impossible. and even now it makes my chest tight to think of how perfect it all was, how i felt so happy and lucky i wondered if i was cheating, and how when i came home— to you, to anyone— it felt as though i had come into a windfall of possibility, of good things.”—rara avis: conifer
“Do you know when someone gives you flowers for no reason? Do you know what that feels like, versus what it should feel like?
What it should feel like: The sunlit section of a hardwood floor inside a west-facing French door, inside a cool house, on a late afternoon in September. A spot of warmth that is unnecessary but nice. Welcome but not overwhelming.
What it does feel like: What I imagine it feels like to be chased by something when you’re standing still; when something catches you because you don’t run. What I can only imagine that feels like, because I never tried to find out.”—from Wild Goose Chase. Read more at This Recording. (via coffeeslut)
“[Mick] sat down on the steps and laid her head on her knees. She went into the inside room. With her it was like there was two places – the inside room and the outside room. School and the family and the things that happened every day were in the outside room. Mister Singer was in both rooms. Foreign countries and plans and music were in the inside room. The songs she thought about were there. And the symphony. When she was by herself in this inside room the music she had heard that night after the party would come back to her. This symphony grew slow like a big flower in her mind. During the day sometimes, or when she had just waked up in the morning, a new part of the symphony would suddenly come to her. Then she would have to go into the inside room and listen to it many times and try to join it into the parts of the symphony she remembered. The inside room was a very private place. She could be in the middle of a house full of people and still feel like she was locked up by herself.”—The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, Carson McCullers (via commovente)