but also this is REALNESS.

basically terrible at tumblr want to be alone in my house listening to cafe tacuba and reading a thousand years of solitude but you know not finished with anything yet. 

today, in my snit, in my comedown from brinksship, my thunderstorm that never bursts, my windows open, my here we go again, Liz tells me it is about adjusting the view, about going for it anyway, about being quick, about what did you really want?

tonight it is balmy and deep green, the color of barrack and camp tents, of the beginning of a summer, the throaty oaks of it, and I lie on my back alone in the bay window room of the only place that was mine alone, that i tried to make myself but never really, and i think, I’m alone on a summer night in the middle of a buttery lit ceiling fan wood floor, in a room of my own, I’m almost off Diviasadero or NE 23rd and the ancient bed and orange light the twilight room in Casa Azul and the fields of moon and mezcal, if anything, I managed to do something right. 

take it back, today has been

  • incredible high of an acceptance
  • ennui of work
  • blow re: master’s project, but then leveling out
  • rejection and wrasslin’ with editing
  • kicking ass with my legal voice
  • balmy ride to techno

so, broke even, I guess. 

rainydayprocedure:

"There is a road, no simple highway, between the dawn and the dark of night, and if you go no one may follow, that path is for your steps alone." 

things I want to do with four weeks to go. sigh.

I saw the movie version of Michael Chabon’s Wonder Boys well before I read the book. I thought, and still do, that it was one of the best movies ever made about being a writer. This was before I became serious about writing, but when I already knew most movies about writers are bullshit. I’ve…

i feel most of these things about Wonder Boys

"The days aren’t discarded or collected, they are bees
that burned with sweetness or maddened
the sting: the struggle continues,
the journeys go and come between honey and pain.
No, the net of years doesn’t unweave: there is no net.
They don’t fall drop by drop from a river: there is no river.
Sleep doesn’t divide life into halves,
or action, or silence, or honor:
life is like a stone, a single motion,
a lonesome bonfire reflected on the leaves,
an arrow, only one, slow or swift, a metal
that climbs or descends burning in your bones."
— Pablo Neruda, Still Another Day (via coffeestainedheart)

(Source: aconversationoncool)

oh good only the rest of the frakking weekend of me and design suite and deep, deep shame about how impressed I was with this draft.

oh good only the rest of the frakking weekend of me and design suite and deep, deep shame about how impressed I was with this draft.

themusepaper:

Curated by iheartfailure, Linden Avenue’s Breakup Issue is now available for viewing. Enjoy!

Oh and MAD excited to have two pieces in April’s Linden Avenue Literary Journal. Little victories.

current mood while on second draft of project: tom hardy and other brit talking into a walkie talkie at the end of Layer Cake muttering, bingo bongo. tango foxtrot. blah blah blah. 

responses i wanted to say when told, “you look tired” or “you look tired and pissed off this morning”

  • "you look really white this morning"
  • "you look like you’re policing my existence"
  • "you look like your overeager lines of questionings are a way to protect yourself from people calling you out on your privilege"
  • "wow you look super cismale"
  • "you look pretty ignorant"
  • "you look like you can’t understand the complexities of gentrifications"
  • "you look like your inability to try and examine the roots of poverty will allow you to sleep at night"
  • "you look like an unempathetic prick"
  • "you look like you never worry about getting a job due to your privilege"
  • "you’ll look a lot better when I get away from you"
"When someone works for less pay than she can live on—when, for example, she goes hungry so that you can eat more cheaply and conveniently—then she has made a great sacrifice for you, she has made you a gift of some part of her abilities, her health, and her life. The “working poor,” as they are approvingly termed, are in fact the major philanthropists of our society. They neglect their own children so that the children of others will be cared for; they live in substandard housing so that other homes will be shiny and perfect; they endure privation so that inflation will be low and stock prices high. To be a member of the working poor is to be an anonymous donor, a nameless benefactor, to everyone else."