Wednesday, July 30, 2014

 Margaret Atwood writing The Handmaid’s Tale in Berlin, 1984.
(These days, her desk looks like this)

 Margaret Atwood writing The Handmaid’s Tale in Berlin, 1984.

(These days, her desk looks like this)

(Source: writersatwork)

You think I’m not a goddess?
Try me.
This is a torch song.
Touch me and you’ll burn.
Margaret Atwood, from “Helen of Troy Does Countertop Dancing” (via astronomized)

(Source: larmoyante)

Tuesday, July 29, 2014

I love the word warm.
It is almost unbearable —
so moist and breathlike.

I feel the earth like a nurse,
curing me of winter.
I feel the earth,
its worms oiling upward,
the ants ticking,
the oak leaf rotting like feces
and the oats rising like angels.

In the beginning,
summer is a sense
of this earth,
or of yourself.

Anne Sexton, from Letters To Dr. Y. (via violentwavesofemotion)
Monday, July 28, 2014

mythology meme:  [3/3] mythical rulers

↳ romulus and remus of alba longa

Twin sons of Mars and Rhea Silvia, they were nursed by a she-wolf as infants and raised by a simple shepherd and his wife. Once they reached adulthood, they helped overthrow the false king of Alba Longa. Rather than press their own claim to the throne, however, they decided to restore the rightful king, and found a new city of their own. A disagreement arose, concerning the location of this new city; the brothers fought and Remus was killed. Romulus founded Rome and brought it glory, but as the years passed he became increasingly autocratic, and in the end either disappeared, ascended to the heavens to become a god in his own right, or was killed by the Senate, depending on the particular version of the myth.


S’mores Cheesecake Cake | Little Accidents In The Kitchen


S’mores Cheesecake Cake | Little Accidents In The Kitchen

Sunday, July 27, 2014


I wonder how many people in this city 
live in furnished rooms. 
Late at night when i look out at the buildings
I swear I see a face in every window 
looking back at me 
and when I turn away
I wonder how many go back to their desks
and write this down. 

-Leonard Cohen

Saturday, July 26, 2014

… we don’t realize that the astonishing linguistic capacity of the human brain did not evolve in relation to the computer, nor even in relation to written texts. Rather, it evolved in relation to stories that were passed down orally. For countless millennia, stories and story-telling were the way we humans learned our language. Spoken stories are something that we enter into with our bodies. We feel our way around inside a story.

I think children really need to experience stories and to hear their parents and their uncles and their aunts telling them stories. And I don’t mean reading stories to them, but simply improvising stories face-to-face with a child. Or stepping outside and pointing to the forest edge and saying, “Do you know what happens inside that forest every full moon?” Or, “Look at the river. Do you know how the river feels whenever the salmon returns to its waters? It feels this way, and this is the story that tells why.”

David Abram here (via shrinkrants)
For when I found the throneroom
festooned with pelvis bones,

the twin-fingered god on whose nether lip I hung
a kiss, a crape-gartered barb,

was you — you the pursued, yours
the bull’s head draped with fragrant lash-black hair.
Peter Kline, from “Minotaur” (via the-final-sentence)
Friday, July 25, 2014

“Good job, Lavina, darling. And remember, too, Lavina, the times we let you be a little girl.

When she was a little girl in Palmyra, Illinois, being the youngest of a large family, she was expected to leave a note in the kitchen saying where she had gone after school. One day the note that was found said ‘I have gone where I have decided.’

We loved you.

We love you

We will always love you.

We will meet again.”

Kurt Vonnegut at the funeral of his friend. (via gatheringbones)
Wednesday, July 23, 2014
Bliss—a-second-by-second joy and gratitude at the gift of being alive, conscious—lies on the other side of crushing, crushing boredom. Pay close attention to the most tedious thing you can find (Tax Returns, Televised Golf) and, in waves, a boredom like you’ve never known will wash over you and just about kill you. Ride these out, and it’s like stepping from black and white into color. Like water after days in the desert. Instant bliss in every atom. David Foster Wallace, The Pale King (via booksalon)