Even though the house is deeply silent and the room, with no moon, is perfectly dark, even though the body is a sack of exhaustion inert on the bed, someone inside me will not get off his tricycle, will not stop tracing the same tight circle on the same green threadbare carpet. It makes no difference whether I lie staring at the ceiling or pace the living-room floor, he keeps on making...
Fill yourself up with the forsythias and when the lilacs flower, stir them in too with your blood and happiness and wretchedness, the dark ground that seems to come with you. Sluggish days. All obstacles overcome. And if you say: ending or beginning, who knows, then maybe—just maybe—the hours will carry you into June, when the roses blow. By Gottfried Benn
Our history is noble and tragic Like a tyrant’s glaring mask No hazard nor magical drama No trivial detail Makes pathos of our love Opium possessed de Quincey Chaste poison drunk to Anne He dreamed his life away On on since all must past I’ll frequently turn back Memories are hunting horns Whose sound dies out along with the wind By Guilliaum Apollinaire
Inner Sanctum (Dawn Spencer Hurwitz)
Back in high school, a friend of mine achieved the ultimate street cred when his parents kicked him out of the house. They happened to own a local restaurant, at which toiled a half-dozen migrant Mexican line cooks. These kind-hearted gentlemen took pity on my friend and gave him shelter at the abandoned farmhouse they occupied as squatters. Hidden from the world by a thick screen of wild...
When One Has Lived A Long Time Alone
5 When one has lived a long time alone, one knows only consciousness consummates, and as the conscious one among these others uttering compulsory cries of being here— the least flycatcher witching up “che-bec,” or redheaded woodpecker clanging out his music from a metal drainpipe, or ruffed grouse drumming “thump thrump thrump thrump-thrump- thrump-thrump-rup-rup-rup-rup-rup-r-r-r-r-r-r” ...
Regret nothing. Not the cruel novels you read to the end just to find out who killed the cook, not the insipid movies that made you cry in the dark, in spite of your intelligence, your sophistication, not the lover you left quivering in a hotel parking lot, the one you beat to the punchline, the door or the one who left you in your red dress and shoes, the ones that crimped your toes,...
Going to McDonald’s for a salad is like going to a whore for a hug.– My friend Alexandra
WHY A SLOW START TO A CAREER ISN'T A BAD THING AT...
adteachings: ilovecharts: The Principle of the Flywheel “When cycling uphill, you start off with great gusto, and seem to be getting somewhere, but as you cycle further and further uphill, you get to the point where you barely feel like you’re moving. “Contrast this with the flywheel, which can take ages to get moving, but once it’s really going, you would struggle to stop it even if you...