May 2012
11 posts
Book recommendations post. Go.
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CIV. Will you write about this later? The couch digging feelings I wanted buried and the walls chipping to reveal something ugly underneath. You smiled like something dirty and I still can’t tell the difference between mockery and a dare when you look at me like that. I tried to keep from staring at your lips, and instead of saying, Tell me something pretty, an undisguised dare, a shameless plea,...
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Even if I’m a failure at everything I ever do in life forever, it will be okay if I die with a personal library, right?
Turn Off This Song and Go Outside | The Lonely...
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XCV. I let him put his hands on my hips but I am still wondering what he looked like in the daylight. I couldn’t look him in the eyes because I know he would have mistaken the California heat I have been dreaming of in restless sleep for something that would get me into bed with him later, because wanderlust is still a form of lust, the kind for lonesome people, and because I could tell he didn’t...
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Arkaye Kierulf, "Textbook Statistics" →
gammasandgerunds:
On average, 5 people are born every second and 1.78 die. So we’re ahead by 3.22, which is good, I think.
The average person will spend two weeks in his life waiting for the traffic light to change.
Pubescent girls wait two to four years for the tender lumps under their nipples to grow.
So the average adult has over 1,460 dreams a year, laughs 15 times a day. Children, 385...
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someone from any of these cities let me stay on their floor for like a week please:
nyc san francisco new orleans chicago philadelphia la
April 2012
6 posts
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“Because, in truth, I didn’t become a writer the first time I put pen to...”
– Junot Díaz
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LXXXI. You were already half in love when you saw her across the room, something broken and close to innocent, whispered to me, “Look at those sharp edges,” voice wavering like you could feel your shirt staining where she was already making you bleed. I should have stopped you. I noticed the smell of gasoline on your breath, the spark that rose from the friction of teeth and tongue when you spoke....
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5 fantasy exit strategies →
red-wolves:
1. Run away to Brooklyn. Rent an apartment with a claw footed bathtub. Commute to Manhattan during the week and put in hours at a menial publishing job. Drive home to New Jersey on weekends to swim in the pool and cry to your mother. Smoke Gauloises on the fire escape. Let yellowing issues of Rolling Stone and Vogue pile into a protective fortress around your bed. Listen to Cat...
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LXVIII. If you are not at least half way in love with the little middle of nowhere town sprouting outside your bedroom window, “this goddamn city,” you said, rising from the skyline through your windshield like a promise of something great already broken, then you have not met the right people. Have not taken enough car rides on passenger seats, have not rolled down enough windows, have not put...
March 2012
13 posts
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Don’t do a 365 project because you will get pregnant and die.
Anonymous asked: your writing often makes me want to cry (but not actually cry, which is different I think) -- a bashful friend
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I was talking to a friend yesterday about PotterCast and the interview they had with J.K. Rowling right after Deathly Hallows came out in ‘07 (1,2) and last week I was talking to another friend about the documentary J.K. Rowling - A Year in the Life and how she returns to the apartment she wrote the Sorcerer’s Stone in and finds someone else’s house with someone else’s...
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sealegslegssea:
Mree, Blood by The Middle East...
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XLIX. I didn’t love you but hand me a match and half of the poems I wrote about you and I could set this neighborhood on fire. That’s the thing about poetry, it’s young and naïve and desperate to fall in love. You asked me my secret once, here it is: I only ever watch strangers in hope they’re beautiful enough, strange enough, broken enough to write about later. I wrote about you because you had...
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XLVI. You’re looking at me like I’m something science could explain, and I’m watching the underwater sun through the glass door pretending I am something vast and still mysterious like the Atlantic watching something vaster and more mysterious like the sun because I am still trying to figure you out. The neighbors upstairs are quiet tonight so we play the music loud and we laugh louder. At the...
February 2012
15 posts
Anonymous asked: Could you give us a list of all your favorite tumblrs?
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XLIV. This time when I ask to catch the sun mid yawn over the horizon, when I suggest we stay because there’s a love affair to be witnessed between the Atlantic and the moon, I can promise you I won’t hesitate. You’ll say yes, a little drunk, probably, because your mother’s a state away, and because we’re not fourteen or fifteen or even sixteen but we’re still just as desperate. Did you catch me...
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XLIII. It’s that time again. I should tell you about winter’s disappearance and how spring’s a season that exists all year long inside my rib cage. I should, but I’m fifteen and I’m writing a love poem, thinking it comes easy, that it feels the way midnight yawns and morning stretches do, that it’s clean, then the clock shines five past midnight and I’m nineteen in the shower with blood at my feet...
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I have buried you every place I’ve been You...
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to the girls on my dash that keep wishing for love
cuethefire:
There’s potential in the gaping spaces that separate each of your fingers, the spaces you keep referring to as the universe because sometimes the gaping spaces are lonely and quiet and mocking of your insignificance the same way the universe is. There’s potential, in the lonely crook of your neck, in the dust collecting across your collarbones, at the curve of your hips, there is...
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XXXVI. Turning nineteen, I want to tell him, it’s a crisis. On the first and second and third day nothing changes and on the sixth day you lose your footing on the steps when an almost stranger or almost friend asks your age and “nineteen” sits like an ingrown teeth in your mouth, but “sixteen” feels like a number a fortune teller carved bloody and permanent at the edge of your spine, so you...
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XXXIII. There’s music, a Big Bang bigger and brighter when I close my eyes, red lipstick and heart shaped sunglasses and a California sunshine I could still write the truth about if I wanted to.
XXXIV. In this other universe, the one shiny and new behind my eyelids, I’ve got lips like a blooming flower and you only ever look good and black and yellow. He’s got a sting to his walk, that...
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And so it began. He played “Begin the Beguine” against Tessie’s collarbone. He played “Moonface” against her smooth cheeks. Pressing the clarinet right up against the red toenails that had so dazzled him, he played “It Goes to Your Feet.” With a secrecy they didn’t acknowledge, Milton and Tessie drifted off to quiet parts of the house, and there, lifting her skirt a little, or removing a sock, or...
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XXIX. There is a science to counting down the days — chemistry in our breaths against the speaker phone, and physics in the way my blood rushes when you say goodbye because something comes up.
XXX. What if I’m at your doorstep, then? I’ve been quiet, I know, but small talk looks cheap on both of us, darling. You would laugh at that. Oh, darling, and no, honey. I’ve still got that summer...
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richard siken reads 'litany in which certain... →
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“When you’re a kid, they tell you it’s all… Grow up, get a job, get married, get...”
– Doctor Who, Love and Monsters. (via inkyperspective)
January 2012
22 posts
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You Want a Physicist to Speak at Your Funeral
thereisafish:
You want a physicist to speak at your funeral. You want the physicist to talk to your grieving family about the conservation of energy, so they will understand that your energy has not died. You want the physicist to remind your sobbing mother about the first law of thermodynamics; that no energy gets created in the universe, and none is destroyed. You want your mother to know...
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Love was a sold Gibson 335 And your father’s dream...
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XIII. The boy behind the gas station counter, he’s got eyes the kind of blue that grows insomniacs and a book behind his back the same way people carry weapons and things that kill. He looks at everything with the shame of a dreamer, and I want to tell him I understand. That on the worst of days I worry about dying a dreamer too, and that failure is a wild, cancerous thing I’ll never find a cure...