“I was like that: visible invisible visible invisible.
There’s no material as variable as moonlight.
I was climbing, clinging to the underneath of my bones, thinking:
Good God! Who have I been last night?”—Alice Oswald, from “Full Moon” (via ahuntersheart)
“I want movement, not a calm course of existence. I want excitement and danger and the chance to sacrifice myself for my love. I feel in myself a superabundance of energy which finds no outlet in our quiet life.”—Leo Tolstoy (via misswallflower)
Your blog is one of my favorites. It is a sane place for me. Mostly I follow fan bloggers for my favorite television shows, but personal blogs are by far my favorite and yours is at the top of my list of greatest blogs I follow. Now for a question.. I haven't been reading a lot lately and I would like to change that. What books would you suggest?
Thank you for the compliments!
Oh, gosh. I’m not sure what genre of books you prefer, so here are a few I’ve read in the past few months or so that I enjoyed:
Look at the Birdie, Kurt Vonnegut
Reading Lolita in Tehran, Azar Nafisi
Summer Crossing, Truman Capote
Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, Jonathan Safron Foer
Room, Emma Donoghue
The Broom of the System, David Foster Wallace
You should also get your hands on any issue of McSweeney’s.
hey girl, i recently moved to toronto and my room is in dire need of decoration. do you have any prints you recommend? i scoured your tumblr for that don draper quote one, but i cant find it :(
Ugh, Tracy, I’m sorry I let this go unresponded to forever. The Don Draper quote print was from this Etsy seller, but his shop appears to be empty now. However, I’m still working on decorating my place, so I’ve been hunting prints as well, and it won’t bother me one bit if we buy all the same ones! Here are some links to a few I enjoy (I was working with a sort of blue/green color scheme):
“The Ability to Walk and Read at the Same Time: Belle, Beauty and the Beast
For weeks after I saw Belle pull this off, Belle with her kicky apron and sensible ponytail, I practiced walking to school with a Babysitters’ Club book in front of my face. There were some skinned knees. I tripped into a shrub or six. But years later, it’s all been worth it, because it sure does make the walk from my apartment to Coffee Bean feel shorter. I guess. Still, even the sight of me reading while walking has never inspired a dude who owns a castle to beg the favor of my company for margaritas at Chili’s or whatever.”—
“I don’t think that I’ve been in love as such, Although I liked a few folk pretty well. Love must be vaster than my smiles or touch, For brave men died and empires rose and fell For love: girls followed boys to foreign lands And men have followed women into Hell.
In plays and poems someone understands There’s something makes us more than blood and bone And more than biological demands… For me, love’s like the wind, unseen, unknown. I see the trees are bending where it’s been, I know that it leaves wreckage where it’s blown. I really don’t know what ‘I love you’ means. I think it means ‘Don’t leave me here alone.’”—Neil Gaiman, “Sonnet” (via ricktimus)
“Who is she? This woman who has led him into this medicine cabinet of a room where most of her possessions exist - books, journals, passport, a carefully folded map, archival tapes, even the soap she has brought with her from her other world. As if this orderly collection of things is what she is. So we fall in love with ghosts.”—Divisadero, Michael Ondaatje (via sketchofthepast)
Saturdays are my Mondays, which means I spend the night alone, drinking white wine, dancing to that Pixies song in stockings and a cardigan, sneaking out to dump my trash in my neighbor’s garbage can because I’m never home (sober) on garbage nights and I don’t (think I) have garbage cans of my own.
They turned on my radiator today. I noticed the smell before I noticed the warmth and it was lovely. It smelled like cozy wintertime, and I’m not even really even looking forward to winter. But I’m a fan of quilts. I’m a fan of hot chocolates and thigh high socks. I’m even a fan of noisy radiators that bang in the night.
I’m still no good at making small talk in elevators. I’m still too tired all the time. I still can’t get myself to do anything I don’t want to (aka anything other than watching Sister Wives on Netflix instant and eating the leftover birthday cake my mom made for me).
The Beatles comes up on shuffle and I do the twist like my dad taught me and I bite my lip in the mirror and sing into the bottle and I think about being a single girl in the city and how I’m kind of warming up to it. Maybe that’s just the radiator I’m feeling. Either way, it’s alright with me.
I turned 25 tonight on the subway, as the D train sailed over the Manhattan bridge. In my arms: a bag of laundry and a bouquet of daisies, a gift to myself. When I bought them, I suddenly remembered another New Yorker and how she dubbed them the friendliest flower. Sometimes, when I am just a little sad or lonely, I like to imagine myself as a post-Frank Navasky breakup Kathleen Kelley, arranging her bookshelves or walking purposefully around the Upper East Side to the Cranberries.
Where was I? 25. Twenty five. How can that be? I find myself a restless twenty five, though I sleep easily and endlessly and at every opportunity. I am altogether unkempt and inconvenient. Always just a little bit wrinkled, eyeliner smudged, nails chipped. I avoid solitary cab rides, vegetables, and overcrowded bars. When you are younger, you imagine your life at twenty five with the sort of careless hopefulness one projects upon the distant future. You imagine that you will be rich. That you will be loved. That you will be thin, and poised, and successful, and your hair will finally swing like a Pantene commercial. You do not imagine that you will still be leaving your clothes on the floor. You do not imagine paying for renter’s insurance, or sobbing in the bathroom at work, or scrubbing your own refrigerator. You could not have imagined it. How could you?
But child, look at you. You are a woman, more than you’d like to believe. You have your own apartment. You buy groceries and black blazers for work. You wear heels for twelve hours straight some days, and then you go to a bar where the Irish bartender knows your name and makes your whiskey sours strong and cheap. You call your parents. You go to meetings. You know how to make your toilet flush when the chain gets caught in the tank. You’ve bought furniture and lectured on film theory and more than once you’ve kept your cool in front of a movie star. You no longer write poetry, but you do write checks, and here and there a scathing email. You are not grown up, but you are growing up.
Whatever it is I have or haven’t become, I am still the same emotional girl I have always been. All of our insecurities, the crowded hopes and embarrassments and slights never leave us. We don’t even become better at hiding them. The difference is that now I know it. And when, at twenty five, I find myself anxious and insecure, I will put on my black blazer, the one with the silver name tag, and say with more patience than confidence, “Alright then. What’s next?”
“You’re like a witness. You’re the one who goes to the museum and looks at the paintings. I mean the paintings are there and you’re in the museum too, near and far away at the same time. I’m a painting. Rocamadour is a painting. Etienne is a painting, this room is a painting. You think that you’re in the room but you’re not. You’re looking at the room, you’re not in the room.”—Julio Cortázar (via atomos)
“If I knew that today would be the last time I’d see you, I would hug you tight and pray the Lord be the keeper of your soul. If I knew that this would be the last time you pass through this door, I’d embrace you, kiss you, and call you back for one more. If I knew that this would be the last time I would hear your voice, I’d take hold of each word to be able to hear it over and over again. If I knew this is the last time I see you, I’d tell you I love you, and would not just assume foolishly you know it already.”—Gabriel Garcia Marquez (via atomos)