secrets on a card

secrets on a card All I can ask you to do is look at No. 1, 6, and 11.

Originally posted on egsforbreakfast:
Dear Colleges, Do you understand that my dog has a better understanding of basic societal rules than you? Rules like “don’t almost kill people” and “don’t shit on the furniture”. She’s twenty one years old. The same age as you. And not once has she set fire to a couch or…

split-fork crisis

I’m going through a pretty substantial decision-crisis at the moment. This is in regards to next year and what should be done with it. There are two clear-cut roads and I can only really walk down one of them (and I cannot tell at this point the extent of their divergence – whether I’ll end…

Wren

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S6yuR8efotI

There was a girl in class today who was giving a presentation on Susan Howe’s (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Susan_Howe) ‘The Midnight’. Her name was Wren and she wore a bright blue and green dress, almost consciously adopting her namesake’s feathers. As a prelude to her presentation she announced that she had been late to this semester of work because she had been responsible for organising her father’s funeral.
“My father died suddenly and unexpectedly. I decided to tell you because I can’t seem able to stop talking about it.”
It was as though saying it, in this classroom of strangers, was a reconfirmation of the fact.
She polished-plum-deep nails and a lip-stud.
I felt gripped by an impulse to ask if she was OK but was caught by the absurdity of such an idea – of course she isn’t OK. Maybe our trigger to ask such inadequate questions is a mask for our desire to show concern or empathy – it’s just that language is being inadequate again.

She said something so beautiful – ‘you should treat me as a really suspicious reader as I tried to use this text to work out how to reconstruct the pieces of a person after they’re gone.”
How do you reconstruct the dead authentically?

the angels

I went backpacking the summer of 2010/11 with my best mate and discovered, in Vienna, both Schiele (along with Klimt) and Rilke at the same exhibition. Some curator had made the genius stroke of pairing the poet with these artists and I will never forget reading these words on one of those unsuspecting plain white…