This little camera takes
pictures incognito, blurry
a sidewalk step away,
so close you could see the gum on my shoe
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Friday, February 25, 2011
Too long for Twitter, too short for a book
The compiled random thoughts of a person you never see.
Test out the waters in my stream of consciousness. It's chilly, but you get used to it.
Test out the waters in my stream of consciousness. It's chilly, but you get used to it.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Gun Street Girl - Galway, 1988
I get off the last bus, return trip from Dublin.
Walking back in the empty damp,
hands jammed in pockets, fingering the change.
The soundtrack is what i found
in the left-behind tape deck in my rented flat,
with its view of the bay, and its cold shower down the hall.
I carry the downtown old beer and chip-shop smell through
the barnacled dark.
Walking back in the empty damp,
hands jammed in pockets, fingering the change.
The soundtrack is what i found
in the left-behind tape deck in my rented flat,
with its view of the bay, and its cold shower down the hall.
I carry the downtown old beer and chip-shop smell through
the barnacled dark.
After 40
While gravity and time and stress might take its inevitable toll, it is more than compensated for by the lack of giving-a-shit that comes along with it.
All the bullshit lectures you pretended to listen to at 16 when you hated yourself are suddenly sounding prophetic.
But still - you are smart to cultivate your wits and your passions, because time takes longer to cart those away.
All the bullshit lectures you pretended to listen to at 16 when you hated yourself are suddenly sounding prophetic.
But still - you are smart to cultivate your wits and your passions, because time takes longer to cart those away.
Publish Post
One more day
When I was first landed in exile, I only bought small containers of everything, thinking there would be an end soon and I didn't want clutter in the cabinets.
At some point limbo must become reality. Life cannot be lived trial-sized.
You buy the economy size 1/2 and 1/2. Big packs of paper towels. A rug for the floor, a bookshelf, new towels. Things you can't pack in a suitcase.
You never stop wishing you were somewhere else, never stop believing that you will someday escape - but you stop living your life as if the only important thing is getting out.
If your bed has been made, and you must lie in it - it might as well be comfortable.
At some point limbo must become reality. Life cannot be lived trial-sized.
You buy the economy size 1/2 and 1/2. Big packs of paper towels. A rug for the floor, a bookshelf, new towels. Things you can't pack in a suitcase.
You never stop wishing you were somewhere else, never stop believing that you will someday escape - but you stop living your life as if the only important thing is getting out.
If your bed has been made, and you must lie in it - it might as well be comfortable.
Would I read a blog that has me as a member?
Privacy is held up as sacred - this is nothing new.
Privacy is deliberately massacred - also, nothing new.
We've written this book before, it just took longer.
So where, exactly, does honesty live? (I was going to say "Where does honesty lie?" but, even though it wasn't intentional, it seemed far too contrived).
The only place it can truly reside is in your head.
We give ourselves away to a greater or lesser degree every day of our lives. Not always by choice - it's often difficult to fully consider the effect that folding your arms while in conversation might have, or blinking too much, or looking briefly sideways, or tapping a pencil.
If you know where to look, no one is private.
Everyone knows that when you write in a diary you assume that someone, someday, will find it. Even the purging of your deepest darkest weirdnesses - why would you write it down at all if it wasn't for the possibility that you will be not just heard, but understood.
Our need for privacy is forever at war with our need for acceptance.
And with that, I begin.
Privacy is deliberately massacred - also, nothing new.
We've written this book before, it just took longer.
So where, exactly, does honesty live? (I was going to say "Where does honesty lie?" but, even though it wasn't intentional, it seemed far too contrived).
The only place it can truly reside is in your head.
We give ourselves away to a greater or lesser degree every day of our lives. Not always by choice - it's often difficult to fully consider the effect that folding your arms while in conversation might have, or blinking too much, or looking briefly sideways, or tapping a pencil.
If you know where to look, no one is private.
Everyone knows that when you write in a diary you assume that someone, someday, will find it. Even the purging of your deepest darkest weirdnesses - why would you write it down at all if it wasn't for the possibility that you will be not just heard, but understood.
Our need for privacy is forever at war with our need for acceptance.
And with that, I begin.