“Some people are uncomfortable with silences. Not me. I’ve never cared much for call and response. Sometimes I will think of something to say and then I ask myself; is it worth it? And it just isn’t.”—Miranda July (via vashti)
“If you know what you are going to write when you’re writing a poem, it’s going to be average. Creating a poem is a continual process of re-creating your ignorance, in the sense of not knowing what’s coming next. A lot of poets historically have described a kind of trance. It’s not like a Vedic trance where your eyes cross, and you float. It’s a process not of knowing, but of unknowing, of learning again. The next word or phrase that’s written has to feel as if it’s being written for the first time, that you are discovering the meaning of the word as you put it down.”—Derek Walcott, as cited in Advice to Writers by Jon Winokur (via litverve)
“Let us not underestimate how hard it is to be compassionate. Compassion is hard because it requires the inner disposition to go with others to place where they are weak, vulnerable, lonely, and broken. But this is not our spontaneous response to suffering. What we desire most is to do away with suffering by fleeing from it or finding a quick cure for it.”—Henri J.M. Nouwen (via remnant)
I draw lines in the condensation on my sweating glass of white wine. In Brooklyn, the humidity is 94% and my hair goes curly on the ends. The bedroom door sticks. I stay up late. It’s 100 degrees in Arizona.
The weekends move too quickly. It feels like I spend them all doing dishes. The laundry pile never dwindles. Every afternoon is overcast. But in the evening, there is wine. Black bean soup. Strawberries. The living room glows. I am blushing and content. I light candles - lemon verbena, sugared orange, eucalyptus spearmint, volcano - and let them flicker for hours. I finish the bottle. We talk for hours. It all feels wonderfully immoderate.
I have nightmares about being on LSD and nightmares about marrying the wrong man, and somehow they are nightmares about the same thing: a loss of control, an inability to carry out my own plans. Upon waking, I feel relief, and a strange dizzy exhaustion. The bedroom tilts. I turn over and let the A/C run, listen to the voices on the sidewalk. I save all my talking for later.
You have to be always drunk. That’s all there is to it—it’s the only way. So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks your back and bends you to the earth, you have to be continually drunk.
But on what? Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish. But be drunk.
And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace or the green grass of a ditch, in the mournful solitude of your room, you wake again, drunkenness already diminishing or gone, ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock, everything that is flying, everything that is groaning, everything that is rolling, everything that is singing, everything that is speaking…ask what time it is and wind, wave, star, bird, clock will answer you: “It is time to be drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of time, be drunk, be continually drunk! On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish.
”—Charles Baudelaire, “Be Drunk”, translated by Louis Simpson (via litverve)
“Vera said: “Why do you feel you have to turn everything into a story?”
So I told her why.
Because if I tell the story, I control the version.
Because if I tell the story, I can make you laugh, and I would rather have you laugh at me than feel sorry for me.
Because if I tell the story, it doesn’t hurt as much.
Because if I tell the story, I can get on with it.”—Nora Ephron, Heartburn (1983)
“Well-run libraries are filled with people because what a good library offers cannot be easily found elsewhere: an indoor public space in which you do not have to buy anything in order to stay. In the modern state there are very few sites where this is possible. The only others that come readily to my mind require belief in an omnipotent creator as a condition for membership. It would seem the most obvious thing in the world to say that the reason why the market is not an efficient solution to libraries is because the market has no use for a library. But it seems we need, right now, to keep re-stating the obvious. There aren’t many institutions left that fit so precisely Keynes’ definition of things that no one else but the state is willing to take on. Nor can the experience of library life be recreated online. It’s not just a matter of free books. A library is a different kind of social reality (of the three dimensional kind), which by its very existence teaches a system of values beyond the fiscal.”—Zadie Smith, in the New York Review of Books. (via thebronzemedal)
Ohmygod you guys. I was supposed to have dinner with a friend who just cancelled and now I’m all dolled up with nowhere to go, but it’s cool because I just re-discovered this song, so I’ll be dancing to this in my apartment for the rest of the evening.
The thing about living alone is sometimes your management company calls you and says “heyyy! your downstairs neighbor says there’s water leaking in her apartment, and can you let the repairman in at 8 so we can remove your toilet to fix the pipe underneath and it might take all day, we dunno!”
And you’re like “ugh. yeah. fine.” even though you don’t get home from work until after midnight and 8 AM is a goddamn ungodly hour and you have to tell your boss you don’t know how late you’re gonna be, not to mention the problem of where the hell are you gonna pee.
And you drag yourself out of bed at 7:45 and then no one shows up and you get an email all “LOL yeah your downstairs neighbor decided today wasn’t good for her, so nvm! Also we have no idea when we plan to reschedule! YOLO!”
And you’re like “ugh. christ. so tired.”
And then a few weeks later you get a call from your management company like “hey gurl whassup, y’know that constant gas smell in your apartment that the gas company said was a pilot light? yeah well there’s a gas leak in the building and can you let the repairman in at 8? He’ll work from 8-8:30. Thnxbye!”
And you’re like “ugh ok. fine.” even though it’s your fucking saturday morning and you worked til midnight as usual and then maybe you got a mojito and some wine.
And you drag yourself out of bed at 7:45 and the repairman is all like “hey bro so we gotta cut open your wall and this is probably gonna take like 5 hours not half an hour hope that’s cool!”
And you’re like “fine. whatever. get it done.”
And then the repairman knocks on your door again an hour later and he’s like “so the downstairs neighbor won’t let us in and we gotta run the pipe through her place, so guess this isn’t happening todayyyyy byeeeee.”
And you’re like “but - I - so sleepy… UGH… whyyyy… strongly worded email… *SOB*”
“You are the only person on earth, lover, who has ever known and loved all of me. Men love me ‘cause I’m pretty and they’re always afraid of mental wickedness, and men love me ‘cause I’m clever and they’re always afraid of my prettiness. One or two have even loved me ‘cause I’m lovable, and then, of course, I was acting. But you just do, darling, and I do, so very, very much…”—
“What has become clear is that fashion is to many women what sport is to many men: a pastime, a passion, a shared language, a form of self-definition, and a temporary escape from the opposite sex, all rolled into one deeply satisfying whole.”—A Man’s Guide to a Woman’s Wardrobe, by Luke Leitch (via theepitomeofquiet)
“I want to think again of dangerous and noble things. I want to be light and frolicsome. I want to be improbable and beautiful and afraid of nothing as though I had wings.”—Mary Oliver (via carouselwitch)