dead and weak penguins: a story of love

[x]

this or that kind of right/wrong magic

It occurs to me now that every turning point, necessarily, comes from the rightest thing at the rightest time. Tonight the trees their perfect yolk-yellow that we so easily miss year to year. Or that foreign letter sent from the undated past and a mountain town so remote I cannot even dream it.

That poem. That apology. That string winding down highways and through treetops. That shape of that soul.

That conversation that blew our world wide open, exposing the most heartbroken parts of us.

And so we go on sailing like this, waiting for even the slightest breaths of wind, sometimes, to turn us this way and that in the dark.

*


*

Atop that hill where we did meet
I dreamt a house that sailed away.
Its masts were tall and long and straight;
its flapping sails carried your name.
You sailed that house north to my town
where I was waiting in my sleep
and from your window you called me,
"My dear, let's sail the strangest seas"...

*

I don't ask if you know it, because I do not want to know.


[Artwork c/o OMGTLA]
[Related: as she puts on her coat]

culture culture

"I realize I have a fairly parochial view when it comes to the use of certain words, but nonetheless I maintain that the act of carting crap around in a wagon does not qualify as "culture"--even if you do it while talking on a cellphone and wearing designer clothes. In a sense, the word "culture" is sort of like a human spleen. When healthy, it's useful and important. However, once it becomes diseased, you're better off having it removed, since you can still live without it. The word "culture" became diseased when everyone started attaching it to everything from bicycles to video games. If "culture" were completely eradicated from the English language, we'd miss it, but we'd still be able to function. "European culture" would simply be "European" or "Europe." "Danish cargo bike culture" would simply be "Danish cargo bikes." "Ancient cultures" would just be "ancient peoples." Other organs will take over for the spleen, and other words will take over for "culture." At this point, we're on the cusp of someone actually referring to "culture culture," at which point it will be too late. (Though I suppose this might be somewhat acceptable if you're referring to a primitive rainforest tribe that worships yogurt.)"
[bsnyc via wal]

or like she is two rabbits and one of them is screaming

VV: thats weird cuz when my dad taught me it always ended with "...and then the rabbit recovered and stayed in school and didn't do drugs and never impregnated anyone and was happy forever."

[pfsc via raw]

short-form apology from the ones who could never say so themselves

C: Dude, I think he is just bad with words.





[Related: another long-form apology from the ones who could never say so themselves; prologues, epilogues]

letter from azerbaijan and a mistaken identity

"

S,

You wrote two letters. Thank you. I didn't know who it was from when I first read it. If you didn't write that but someone else did it would be a love letter as it was when I read it once. Do you know that? But since it's from you it ain't. Good thing I know you so goodly. Also I found out all sorts of things about the person who didn't write the letter. I didn't know they could draw vegetables for instance. Thank you for showing me they could... if only for about 7.5 minutes.

I don't know how to stop this thing I'm doing. I think about New York, I only see it in rear-view mirrors and off the wings of 747s. I think of friends and they all appear smiling on postcards. I think about falling in love and it's stamped all over with expiration dates. If I think this, it's sad; if I think the opposite it's coma-inducing horror. I'm not a cocky-handsome 21-year-old anymore, kid, I'm cock-handsome 22 and when I break these chains it will be more and how much more of this shoelace-rough-face travel I got left to me and it's hard to think about.

I should probably grow a beard.

I'm all moony over a dark-eye Georgian. I don't know what to do about this. I'm all moony over the up-above village. I eat a lot of chestnuts.

Don't go making me all cast in gold, I do a lot of no-good out here. No selflessness, no sexy espionage (sexpionage??). This week will be Halloween. My students revolted and refused to read "The Raven." No good student mutiny. No good bird.

I'm plotting a mountain escape in March. Life hangs by this thread. I'm reading Dr. Zhvago. It's really really good but all about fuck-love and so hard sometimes.

Your stationary has changed.

This is the phobia: infinity. Condos in Crown Heights is the phobia. Perfect girlfriends, clothes that don't wear out, jobs and presidents without term limits. I run counter to all your everything. I fear sustainability. This is the phobia.

I should probably grow a beard.

-J

"

a few words about mashed potatoes

Ever since Yukon Golds, Idahoes just aren't the same.

No one cares about what I'm saying and that's just fine; get your own blog, jerks.

variations on a theme in the key of "i hate you because you remind me of the ways in which i hate myself"

I hate you, but looking at you is like looking into the harshest mirror.

I hate the way you look (beautiful, flawless) because it reminds me of the way I look (fat).

I hate the way you look at her because I'm so insecure (God, am I serious right now? I hate myself).

I hate you because you are doing all the things in your life I convinced myself I no longer needed (traveling the world/following your dreams/polyamory/get-rich-quick schemes), but am now so obviously jealous of.

I hate you because we do the same job but I am underpaid.

I hate you because we do the same job but I am underpaid yet have to take what I can get because I'm in endless debt from the time I bought that collector's set of limited edition Magic cards.

I hate seeing your dumb black eye because it reminds me of how I duffed you in the face and then had to spend the night in prison with that creepy guy who slept in my cot with me.

I hate running into you because it reminds me of how unfaithful I've been to my wife (though our sex was so hot).

I hate running into you because it reminds me of how unfaithful I've been to my wife (and it wasn't even worth it because you were a terrible lay).

I hate you for goading me into sharing that whole cheesecake with you in one sitting, but what I really hate is that I hate half a cheesecake in one sitting.

I hate you because you ride the bus and that reminds me that I ride the bus.

Why do I still love you so much? I hate you. Fuck/what the fuck/really?/ugh/motherfuck ...I hate myself.

You still hate me after all this time but why can't you see that the person you really hate is yourself? God, I hate you. (I hate you for hating me when you really hate you.)

Discuss.

[Related: true or false?]

nada sem uma boa raiz

while you were sleeping

Tiny planets colliding long after they were planets at all. Unknown to one another from far ends of the solar system, they've been making their gliding way toward one another so perfectly, blindly and without guilt or nerves. In the instant they finally touch for the first time, it is impossible to say which interrupted which other's orbit. They are trembling now; they are disappearing into air. It is like a magic trick that breaks your heart.