October 2011
106 posts
i never want to contemplate how much wood a woodchuck could chuck ever again.
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how much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?
Evidently, the inquirer of this riddle expects a certain measurement (perhaps a number) of exactly how much wood this woodchuck could chuck-or a representation of how much wood would be chucked. Why do humans rely on numbers? Why do humans need a precise measurement of everything? Why do we seek comfort in numbers and words?
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i have three hours to send my philosophy teacher a meaningful answer to ‘how much wood can a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?’
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September 2011
82 posts
to dream of pearls is a sign of sadness
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i took scissors from a sad girl and used them to cut the people out of my life.
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“Look at the moon. How strange the moon seems! She is like a woman rising from a tomb. She is like a dead woman. One might fancy she was looking for dead things.”
- the page of herodias, salome by oscar wilde
Anonymous asked: What are your favourite movies?
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“A rose-red city, half as old as time.”
—John William Burgon, Petra
Borges once praised this verse, saying that the limitation of saying “half as old” gives the verse a certain emphasis; the city would’ve seemed less old if he had written “as old as time”. This idea appears again in his lecture about blindness, where he mentions that the National Library in Buenos Aires had 900,000 books in it,...
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“I was thinking how amazing it was that the world contained so many lives. Out in these streets people were embroiled in a thousand different matters: money problems, love problems, school problems. People were falling in love, getting married, going to drug rehab, learning how to ice-skate, getting bifocals, studying for exams, trying on clothes, getting their hair-cut and getting born. And in...
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“how’s the patient?”
“dead to the world.”
“but not actually dead.”
“no.”
“how nice-to feel nothing and still get full credit for being alive.”
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the national; exile vilify
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“trout, incidentally, had written a book about a money tree. it had twenty-dollar bills for leaves. its flowers were government bonds. its fruit was diamonds. it attracted human beings who killed each other around the roots and made very good fertilizer.”
- kurt vonnegut, slaughterhouse-five
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“what do you plan on writing? books? poems? articles…?”
“the truth.”
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things i do when i'm drunk:
- try to convince the people around me that it is grammatically correct to refer to individuals as ‘you guys’
- talk about the czechoslovakian revolution
- dance with my friends’ pets
- contemplate dying my hair an outrageous colour
- write poetry on whatever scraps of paper i find nearby
- write letters to myself to read in the morning
- write a ‘things i do when...
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today, someone told me that my hand-writing looks like i’m ‘writing a love letter in a hurry’ which is perfectly okay with me.
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i just found a short story i wrote three years ago about a sad man that kept his beer in his vegetable crisper.
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the guy at the door asks me to open my bag so he can make sure that i’m not trying to smuggle in alcohol and/or drugs but instead catches a glimpse of three novels and a bag of licorice and compliments me on my taste in literature.
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dear nobody.
i understand that you have not known me for long, but i watched you mourn the loss of your mind and i believe that that counts for something. do you remember the time that i told you that my hands were always cold? that night, you played me a song on that chestnut piano of yours. beethoven’s moonlight sonata. my hands have been clutching fire ever since. i wanted you to know.
...
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without warning, my phantoms were at my side again. they ebbed away at me. i felt them picking at my flesh the way a musician picked at the strings of their instrument. the wind howled a rhyme. the crickets resumed their composition. The moon conducted the night orchestra. why was she on their side? i felt betrayed. i felt everything.
Anonymous asked: your words are magnificent. you have a true talent.
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Navigation:
- Snippets of personal prose/poetry
- Picture posts
- Questions previously asked
- Twitter
- 8Tracks
- Audio via. Tumblr
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i am going to go drown in virginia woolf’s waves.
and maybe some chamomile tea.
and my coyote howl of thoughts.
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alwaysghosts-deactivated2011120 asked: Your words are so special. I think I will fall asleep tonight with your words in my hands so that perhaps I can feel less alone and small in my tangled sheets.
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words were good to her, and she to them. stories and poems and novels took care of her when the sun was out and cradled her to sleep nights when i was preoccupied hiding behind the clouds. those nights, i rely on the stars for stories regarding my usual insomniacs, despite the fact that they are terrible gossips.
yes, my usual insomniacs. my philosophers and artists and young children and lonely...
Anonymous asked: Though I respect the frustration of the previous anon, I've never really understood why it's so awful when someone can't take a compliment. I know a lot of people think that shows insecurity, but even if it does, why is that such a horrible thing? We are all struggling through our issues. It is okay. Just know that you do deserve compliments. It's okay; it's all really...
Anonymous asked: you are a crazy one i tell you that...
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Anonymous asked: why can't you just take a god damned compliment?
Anonymous asked: Your eyes are so green and pretty!
Anonymous asked: i think your magic and your blog is magic but i haven't a clue who you are. can i find you anywhere else darling? xx
