October 2011
21 posts
Yeah, I'm already thinking about next year
Sarah and I are working on a three/four day trip for the holidays, with the trip including New Years Eve/Day. Should we go to NYC, Boston, Chicago, or another city of your choice? And - once there - will you let us crash on your couch? I’ll probably bring peanut butter and bananas, and we’ve got a lot of giggles to go around.
“Not a shred of evidence exists in favor of the idea that life is serious.”
—Brendan Gill (via eternalconsciousness)
Note to self:
Supply your own light
Supply your own light
Supply your own light
Supply your own lightDon’t give up.
Play
Marcha de las Putas: Slut Walking Crosses Global Divides →
ontheissuesmagazine.com
Great discussion about Slut Walks around the world from On the Issues Magazine.
This Must Be the Place (Naive Melody)
Talking Heads
talking heads | this must be the place (naïve melody)
so good so good so good
This song came up the other day - love it.
I Love My Job, But It Made Me Poorer →
huffingtonpost.com
Nothing we didn’t already know but JD makes it sound so dreamy…
JD Sampson hits the nail on the eloquent freakin head about success, money, struggling, being a queer woman in America, etc…
“I used to think the worst thing in life was to end up all alone. It’s not. The worst thing in life, is to end up with people who make you feel all alone.”
—Robin Williams (via myfearcansetmefree)
Memory and also you
“Appearing in someone else’s memoir is like appearing in someone else’s dream. ” - Arelene Modica Matthews
As someone who rarely writes anything but her real life (although sometimes in code, vagaries, and cryptic metaphors), I do think about what it means to recreate or represent and what’s at stake. Or, what it means to have a visual, tangible artifact of memory.
There’s a pleasure in the mystery of writing and knowing and recognition. We can’t exist without our self-narratives, published or otherwise. It’s hard for me to think of my life as anything more than a play that I am simultaneously witnessing and acting. I’m performing for myself and keeping track as I go, all the while feeling a little alienated and quite possessed by the idea that we can’t ever escape ourselves.
You see yourself in everywhere you wish to be.
And questions: How do you connect layers of existence when your feeling happens outside of everything else? And what happens to the words you never say? Do you gradually breathe them out, burning like smoke? Do they burrow deep into your heart and circulate forever, like a cancer? Or do they just ache when the weather changes?
Perhaps we (I) write or imagine our narratives not with the fear of being alone (that fear that seems to be number one in many of our laundry lists) but the way our (my) alienation and detachment and loneliness can’t slide smoothly along the fault lines of living and dreams.
(How I cannot express myself without sentences too long, syntax that’s hard to grasp but flows and curves so easily.) Oh, those lost soul connections, those misses that remind us of what we’re afraid of. Maybe life really begins when we start being honest.
