February 2012
17 posts
Anonymous asked: Could you give us a list of all your favorite tumblrs?
1 tag
Can anyone direct me to a good website where I can watch movies? I previously used watch movies az or something like that but it’s been taken down.
?
3 tags
CELEBRATE BECAUSE J.K. ROWLING IS WRITING A NEW BOOK
2 tags
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...
5 tags
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...
3 tags
I have buried you every place I’ve been You...
1 tag
1 tag
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...
3 tags
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...
1 tag
6 tags
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...
2 tags
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...
3 tags
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...
2 tags
richard siken reads 'litany in which certain... →
1 tag
1 tag
“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
1 tag
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...
3 tags
Love was a sold Gibson 335 And your father’s dream...
5 tags
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...
1 tag
3 tags
XV. The way I can’t figure out if I ruin moments by twisting them into false poetry, the way a shiver sometimes feels like an avalanche, the way it says, this will have to keep you alive for months, let’s see you make it count. So there was cheap liquor and things we didn’t mean and things that we did, and I don’t remember climbing into bed in the morning, but I remember...
1 tag
3 tags
X. I am almost twenty because I understand, now, the smoke in my parents’ lungs, and because time’s become more of a liar and less of an enigma. Look here, I am almost twenty, but still sixteen because I’ve got the whole of the United States writing me love letters — kiss stains folded into origami from the Grand Canyon and San Francisco’s perfume in a pressed flower...
1 tag
“I fell in love the way you fall asleep: slowly, then all at once.”
– The Fault In Our Stars
This came up in the Explosions In the Sky Pandora...
1 tag
5 tags
1/52
II. Graduation day the sun shines like it knows about suffering, like it knows it’ll be the one to one day put the Earth out of its misery, and when Mrs. Collon pulls me in by the shoulder to tell me about the strength to the backbone of a dream she’s crying because she walks with a limp and knows reality is stronger.
III. On the other side of the country a rarity of a boy with a wishbone and the...
2 tags
Just, I don’t know, play it and sob...
4 tags
theboywiththepapercrown:
Little Beast
1 An all-night barbeque. A dance on the courthouse lawn. The radio aches a little tune that tells the story of what the night is thinking. It’s thinking of love. It’s thinking of stabbing us to death and leaving our bodies in a dumpster. That’s a nice touch, stains...
2 tags
This Thanksgiving I went to New York City with my...
1 tag
Chuck Wendig, "25 Things Writers Should Stop... →
leopoldgursky:
“A lot of the time we won’t get much respect, but you know what? Fuck that. Take the respect. Writers and storytellers help make this world go around. We’re just as much a part of the societal ecosystem as anybody else. Craft counts. Art matters. Stories are important.”
1 tag
My friend Kevin is always asking me to suggest to him depressing books and I’ve been running out of options now. So, what’s the saddest book you’ve ever read?
I’ve recommended to him The Road, The Book Thief, Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close, The Red Tent, Atonement, and my latest recommendation was Norwegian Wood.
7 tags
I. This is the year I turn twenty, the year my parents turn fifty. Two thousand and twelve. This is the year I grab by the cheeks with ever trembling fingers and kiss hard on the mouth because two thousand and eleven taught me how. Because I have a spine that sometimes looks like the universe’s knuckles faint and ready and brave in a fist, because I know now how many goodbyes it takes to break a...
December 2011
15 posts
1 tag
4 tags
When I was fifteen I wrote an essay about how people in love had eyes the color of God’s, and how God probably had the eyes the color of love. I still write about God like he’s real, like the universe is something he keeps inside his lungs, poisoned and cancerous, like he exhales ghosts and the souls of people instead of smoke. I believe in unconditional love not because I believe in God and the...
1 tag
1 tag
1 tag
“If you only write when inspired you may be a fairly decent poet but you’ll never...”
– Neil Gaiman
(via james-sykora)
2 tags
Somewhere in New York City, a song about home (the feeling) and three missed phone calls. Homesickness feels something kind of like nostalgia, but with more bruises and a little less glamour. Nostalgia looks like the way the light catches dust when the screen door in my grandmother’s house slams, and homesickness looks like a broken gate leading to a broken house at the edge of Brooklyn. Home, I...
1 tag
“What matters is that you do good work. What matters is that you produce things...”
– Dave Eggers (via brighteryellow)
1 tag
2 tags
Yesterday there was blood in the sink when I brushed my teeth, blood underneath my fingernails when I washed my hands, and today the downstairs neighbor woke us up complaining there was poetry red and leaking through the pipes and through the floor underneath. My sister looked at me and said have you been writing, even though she could tell by my knuckles and the ghosts they’ve been carrying that...
2 tags
Driving, Not Washing - Richard Siken
two-of-tree:
It starts with bloodshed, always bloodshed, always the same running from something larger than yourself story, shoving money into the jaws of a suitcase, cutting your hair with a steak knife at a rest stop, and you’re off, you’re on the run, a fugitive driving away from something...