Life can be strange sometimes, and knowing it can be doesn’t seem to make it any less so. I know I don’t have any real wisdom. I don’t have any wonderful ideas. I am lucky to have found a few nice people here and there.
Short stories are my favorite thing to read. I like to be shown just enough of a situation to get a sense of the characters and be lead to some empathetic moment. Ideally, that’s what I’d like to achieve with my songs. I just want to describe enough details to drop the listener into a situation and let them feel something along with the people in the songs, and maybe wonder about what will happen next.
Short stories are my favorite thing to read. I like to be shown just enough of a situation to get a sense of the characters and be lead to some empathetic moment. Ideally, that’s what I’d like to achieve with my songs. I just want to describe enough details to drop the listener into a situation and let them feel something along with the people in the songs, and maybe wonder about what will happen next.
When it got dark I’d go out again for more forties and, on occasion, food. Around ten P. M. I’d switch to vodka and would pretend to better myself with a book or some kind of music, as though God were checking up on me.
“All good here,” I pretended to say. “Just bettering myself, as always.”
When it got dark I’d go out again for more forties and, on occasion, food. Around ten P. M. I’d switch to vodka and would pretend to better myself with a book or some kind of music, as though God were checking up on me.
“All good here,” I pretended to say. “Just bettering myself, as always.”
I want to read books that were written in desperation, by people who are disturbed and overtaxed, who balance on the extreme edge of experience. I want to read books by people who are acutely aware that death is coming and that abiding love is our last resort.
Year in Reading alumna Sarah Manguso writes about motherhood, writing, and the disintegration of the self in a moving essay for Harper’s.
http://www.themillions.com/2015/10/the-extreme-edge-of-experience.html
(via millionsmillions)
Is there any other way?
I want to read books that were written in desperation, by people who are disturbed and overtaxed, who balance on the extreme edge of experience. I want to read books by people who are acutely aware that death is coming and that abiding love is our last resort.
Year in Reading alumna Sarah Manguso writes about motherhood, writing, and the disintegration of the self in a moving essay for Harper’s.
http://www.themillions.com/2015/10/the-extreme-edge-of-experience.html
(via millionsmillions)
Is there any other way?
To photograph people is to violate them, by seeing them as they never see themselves, by having knowledge of them that they can never have; it turns people into objects that can be symbolically possessed. Just as a camera is a sublimation of the gun, to photograph someone is a subliminal murder – a soft murder, appropriate to a sad, frightened time.
I just picked this up from the library. It was sitting there on a shelf as I walked by, headed to meet the book I was there to see.
Surely a sign, yeah?
To photograph people is to violate them, by seeing them as they never see themselves, by having knowledge of them that they can never have; it turns people into objects that can be symbolically possessed. Just as a camera is a sublimation of the gun, to photograph someone is a subliminal murder – a soft murder, appropriate to a sad, frightened time.
I just picked this up from the library. It was sitting there on a shelf as I walked by, headed to meet the book I was there to see.
Surely a sign, yeah?
Those were the days when the earth itself fornicated with the sky, when everything germinated and everything was fruitful.