October 2011
96 posts
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Choke
“The unreal is more powerful than the real. Because nothing is as perfect as you can imagine it. Because its only intangible ideas, concepts, beliefs, fantasies that last. Stone crumbles. Wood rots. People, well, they die. But things as fragile as a thought, a dream, a legend, they can go on and on. If you can change the way people think. The way they see themselves. The way they see the world....
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They Call It Attempted Suicide
My brother’s girlfriend was not prepared for how much blood splashed out. He got home in time, but was angry about the mess she had made of his room. I stood behind, watching them turn into something manageable. Thinking how frightening it must have been before things had names. We say peony and make a flower out of that slow writhing. Deal with the horror of recurrence by calling it a million...
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From American Psycho
“This is what I could understand, this was how I lived my life, what I constructed my movement around, how I dealt with the tangible. This was the geography around which my reality revolved it did not occur to me, ever, that people were good or that a man was capable of change or that the world could be a better place through one’s taking pleasure in a feeling or a look or a gesture,...
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The Diagram →
an awesome place…
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Application for a Driving License
Two birds loved in a flurry of red feathers like a burst cottonball, continuing while I drove over them. I am a good driver, nothing shocks me.
by Michael Ondaatje
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“Why aren’t you in school? I see you every day wandering around.”
“Oh, they...”
– Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451 (via livings)
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Dramamine by Modest Mouse
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From The Unbearable Lightness of Being
“Not until 1980 were we able to read in the Sunday Times how Stalin’s son, Yakov, died. Captured by the Germans during the Second World War, he was placed in a camp together with a group of British officers. They shared a latrine. Stalin’s son habitually left a foul mess. The British officers resented having their latrine smeared with shit, even if it was the shit of the son of...
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“It is that flat and spectral non-hour, awash in limbic tides, brainstem stirring...”
– from Pattern Recognition by William Gibson
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“It seemed my whole life was composed of these disjointed fractions of time,...”
– from The Secret History by Donna Tartt
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I Tried to Call First
Sometimes I overhear and sometimes I underhear. Sometimes you are thinking I am not here. Sometimes I am more here than I’d like to be. Sometimes protecting a reflection is like protecting yourself and washing your face sometimes in a mirror long broken. It’s a day to be remembered. Did you sin and dream of confessing? Did you confess and dream of sinning or of refraining again and again and...
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To My Unborn Child
To my unborn child: I haven’t always been silent, I used to talk and talk and talk and talk, I couldn’t keep my mouth shut, the silence overtook me like a cancer, it was one of my first meals in America, I tried to tell the waiter, “The way you just handed me that knife, that reminds me of -” but I couldn’t finish the sentence, her name wouldn’t come, I tried...
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