February 2012
1 post
June 2011
1 post
January 2011
11 posts
“It’s about where I’m from and where our family’s from and...”
– Neil Young
One Hundred Years of Solitude
“He dug so deeply into her sentiments that in search of interest he found love, because by trying to make her love him he ended up falling in love with her. Petra Cotes, for her part, loved him more and more as she felt his love increasing, and that was how in the ripeness of autumn she began to believe once more in the youthful superstition that poverty was the servitude of love. Both...
From A Letter I Received Today...
“May your mornings feel fresh as if issued to children on a beach and may your hours be filled with moments of pleasure and perfection. May you live in these moments and cherish the hours, and always hope for (and find) more.”
December 2010
1 post
“In the beginning, Sarah Lawrence was so breezily progressive that its suburban...”
– TIME, December 31, 1936 (via sarahlawrencegirls)
October 2010
3 posts
Joan Didion
“We are not idealized wild things. We
are imperfect mortal beings, aware of that mortality even as we push it away, failed by our very complication, so wired that when we mourn our losses we also mourn, for better or for worse, ourselves. As we were. As we are no longer. As we will one day not be at all.”
August 2010
2 posts
Zachary Schomburg
There are meteorites disintegrating in the
atmosphere just a few thousand feet above us and tiny
fireballs are falling down around us, pooling around us,
forming a kind of fire lake which then forms a kind of fire
cloud. There is this feeling I get when I am with you. There is
our future house burning like a star on the hill. There is our
dark flickering shadow. There is my hand on...
June 2010
5 posts
Funeral Blues
From W.H. Auden’s “Funeral Blues”
He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood. For nothing now can ever come to any...
“I’m writing this in part to tell you that if you ever wonder what you’ve done in...”
– written by Marilynne Robinson in her novel, Gilead, a love letter from father to son.
May 2010
3 posts
My Father's Hat
By Mark Irwin
Sunday mornings I would reach
high into his dark closet while standing
on a chair and tiptoeing reach
higher, touching, sometimes fumbling
the soft crowns and imagine
I was in a forest, wind hymning
through pines, where the musky scent
of rain clinging to damp earth was
his scent I loved, lingering on
bands, leather, and on the inner silk
crowns where I would smell...
April 2010
4 posts
Two Doves - The Dirty Projectors
From the Long Sad Party
By Mark Strand
Someone was saying something about shadows covering the field, about how things pass, how one sleeps towards morning and the morning goes. Someone was saying how the wind dies down but comes back, how shells are the coffins of wind but the weather continues. It was a long night and someone said something about the moon shedding its white on the cold field, that there was...
January 2010
1 post
winter blues
I stand outside of the classroom, waiting while a friend finishes her first morning cigarette. Snow covers the trees, cars, sometimes the tops of peoples hats, and every last inch of the ground. I listen to my boot crunch down on the sea salt, freshly scattered this morning to melt the ice by men with thick accents. I miss driving down the Pacific Coast Highway after a long day in Malibu. The...