We’d talked about it often over the course of 10 years together. We both seem to have this same vision of ourselves; this alternate reality in which we’re the cool, west coast type of person, cruising down the pch along whichever portion we’d most recently seen actors driving alongside in some movie or tv show. Probably the Bachelorette if I’m being honest here (and speaking only on my own…
I was conceived while my parents were nearing the end of their honeymoon summer in snydertown, PA. This is the same shithole of a town, somewere in in the nowheres of Pennsylvania between Philadelphia and Pittsburgh, that my grandmother was born in (and probably also conceived in); a place I remember thinking was eh-ok as a kid (this is yet still different from A-Ok), but as an adult, think is…
Thirty seems a little young to write one life’s story. But I guess when you’ve been hearing people repeat that phrase since you were at most, ten years old, the time, i feel, has come. Most of this stuff feels like it happened to another person, and as the more time passes I’m sure that feeling will only intensify. I’m looking forward to closing many of these doors that lead to my past, but not…
"The sun is perfect and you woke this morning. You have enough language in your mouth to be understood. You have a name, and someone wants to call it. Five fingers on your hand and someone wants to hold it. If we just start there, every beautiful thing that has and will ever exist is possible. If we start there, everything, for a moment, is right in the world."
The French charity the Mimi Foundation told 20 cancer patients they would give them makeovers. All that was required of them was to keep their eyes closed to make the reveal more exciting. The patients expected that when they opened their eyes, they would look beautiful — but they got something else completely.
"This sentence has five words. Here are five more words. Five-word sentences are fine. But several together become monotonous. Listen to what is happening. The writing is getting boring. The sound of it drones. It’s like a stuck record. The ear demands some variety. Now listen. I vary the sentence length, and I create music. Music. The writing sings. It has a pleasant rhythm, a lilt, a harmony. I use short sentences. And I use sentences of medium length. And sometimes, when I am certain the reader is rested, I will engage him with a sentence of considerable length, a sentence that burns with energy and builds with all the impetus of a crescendo, the roll of the drums, the crash of the cymbals—sounds that say listen to this, it is important."
"Give me the strongest cheese, the one that stinks best;
and I want the good wine, the swirl in crystal
surrendering the bruised scent of blackberries,
or cherries, the rich spurt in the back
of the throat, the holding it there before swallowing.
Give me the lover who yanks open the door
of his house and presses me to the wall
in the dim hallway, and keeps me there until I’m drenched
and shaking, whose kisses arrive by the boatload
and begin their delicious diaspora
through the cities and small towns of my body.
To hell with the saints, with the martyrs
of my childhood meant to instruct me
in the power of endurance and faith,
to hell with the next world and its pallid angels
swooning and sighing like Victorian girls.
I want this world. I want to walk into
the ocean and feel it trying to drag me along
like I’m nothing but a broken bit of scratched glass,
and I want to resist it. I want to go
staggering and flailing my way
through the bars and back rooms,
through the gleaming hotels and the weedy
lots of abandoned sunflowers and the parks
where dogs are let off their leashes
in spite of the signs, where they sniff each
other and roll together in the grass, I want to
lie down somewhere and suffer for love until
it nearly kills me, and then I want to get up again
and put on that little black dress and wait
for you, yes you, to come over here
and get down on your knees
and tell me just how fucking good I look."