untitled by pariesa young on Flickr.
(Source: digni-tea, via porcelainfawns)
Sundiary V
Habitually, my days start anywhere between 6-10 AM, when I roll out of my grey-flanneled bed in the morning, poke my glasses around my eye regions, and put on whatever chumpy clothes I have. But today is Sunday for all intents and purposes, because I’m essentially done right now. What did I do today? I could split it into thirds, it was a Saturday of three movements, let’s call one a half-presence, the next a complete thunderstorm with a dumb amount of happy, and the third something like a prickly, numbing self-indulgent I don’t know what (I watched a movie and my brain quit its hurtings).
This day, this Sunday, I think I’ll finish my book and write some and art around. See if Patricia is around. Publish that thingy. Putz around. Look into stuff.
This strange conversation may have been the third best part of the trip to Greece.
Quite possibly the second best part was the food.
Food is the second best part of my life, though, so no surprises there.
Investigating Very Old Writing: The Reluctant I
Her childhood is ending. As the hours become mere minutes, her body and mind panic. Her legs react first with a nervous jittering, a compulsive shaking. Soon, soon the theater will blacken, a silence will roar across the audience, then a whisper of hearty applause. They will clap without the least semblance of self-consciousness, for they are conscious of little beyond the grand illumination to come.
(Source: debilitating, via alexupsidedown)
Nightmare
Weeks ago, a tremor bloomed above my left eye. I watched the blackboard and my eyelashes quivered. I drove you home and the lid continued to shiver. Coats of fingerprints won’t halt the shaking, neither can rubbing nor blinking. I caught something terrible one night weeks ago, a near-killer stomped my brains as I slept. My face is a heavy-lidded dreamcatcher and I still have your nightmare covering my irises- shaking, weak, self-aware and somehow comforted by daylight sight.
Apricity: Blarg →
Don’t want to write a
paper thin bark on trees
so tall that shadows fall
off that cliff and I reach up a hand
off from one to the next passing the bottle
green glass dulled by repetition and time
passes slowly when insanity engulfs us all
together slipping past reality with each shot
to…
When writing a novel a writer should create living people; people not characters. A character is a caricature.
— Ernest Hemingway (via pavorst)
The whole damn world
Dear Diary,
I restored some of my optimism. My brain is feeling better. I’m trying to appreciate the opportunities, people, and simple pleasures in my life. Being aware of them, of course, is important. I can’t help but wish to be elsewhere often. The responsibility and same old situation can be tiring, who could blame me? I need to accept that life will be very different very soon, that I’m at the heels of the last summer of a pretty charmed childhood. Adventures and projects I can’t clearly imagine yet- I can’t promise that I fully understand what will happen, how I will feel. All I know is that I want to be present, recording, and living very fully.
With love.
I’m sorry that I’m both your umbrella and the rain.
— Tablo (via rabbitinthemoon)
(via porcelainfawns)
Sundiary IV
College
This place has been around for 200 years now. I think I’m going to be a nobody.
Dream
Last night I had a dream, I don’t remember it, but it felt an awful lot like a children’s novel.
State of the Union
God bless the outside and laughing. I’m starting to sound tacky but I couldn’t care less.
