| this is the saddest story i've read in years |
[ tue | 02 february 2010 | 08:52 pm ] |
spirit
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| one day |
[ thu | 28 january 2010 | 02:21 am ] |
“One woman saved wishbones from chickens because ‘one day they will be used for making wishes.’”
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| I want to have hair like Rinko Kikuchi's. Blat. |
[ thu | 21 january 2010 | 02:46 am ] |
She's starring in a movie based on Murakami's novel Norwegian Wood. (So that's why she's holding that book in that picture. Ah....)
I haven't read that book and I don't have it and I'm not planning to buy a copy of it nor read it in any time soon... I've just bought After Dark yesterday (& some other books & a couple of mags) so I'm not reading anything after I finish that and those dozens of book that I haven't even covered with plastic yet. (Really now?)
Oh, here's a still from the movie:
stolen from here.
The guy was in "1 Liter of Tears," Death Note, and Bright Future. (I don't remember him.)
But the movie I'm really, really wanting to watch is Bi-mong. Joe...
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| absence |
[ wed | 20 january 2010 | 03:38 am ] |
(Recycling)
*****
Life is incomplete without leftover spaghetti in the refrigerator.
like you're opening the ref every 30 minutes or so because you're really, really hungry but all there is this refrigerator cake you would have eaten some some other day but not this day this certain day you want spaghetti and because you don't have spaghetti you begin to think of other things you don't have those absent things i'm not going to ... we're not going to ...
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| ~ |
[ wed | 06 january 2010 | 04:34 am ] |
This Is Not a Lemon
But its representation. An ephemera,
Scoop of one, cool, supine on a plate.
Let's say winter had its way with the lemon.
It pipes up now and then like a sequin
When the spoon catches light, catches
Sugar-and lemon ice; shows
The surprisingly green frail face.
This is not lemon: though lemonish,
Its color is wet—yet less so in the melting
Facets—an exasperating lemonlessness—
Disappearing fact. Taste a bite.
If that's lemon inside the ice—
Why is it lime-like in this light?
—Susan Parr
***
found here
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| leading man |
[ sat | 12 september 2009 | 06:09 pm ] |
I’ve scripted
your intimate talk in my head
speak it back
tell me
white butcher paper
the tongue wrapped
separate from the heart
—from "Lines," Julie Funderburk
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| Lemonish, again |
[ fri | 11 september 2009 | 06:42 am ] |
6:42 a.m. So to compensate for my oversleeping yesterday, I won't be sleeping for last night/today.
Yers.
(Ewan ko ba.)
Dennis Trillo was in my dream yesterday. (Yers.) There was this nice guy character in my dream and he got to play it, as had he also done in two other dreams. Wow. I wonder who's in charge of the casting in my dreams. Maybe he/she can get Christopher Doyle to do the lighting the next time I wander into dreamland. But then I probably won't want to wake up if that happens.
(It's that crushing feeling again. I wish I could sleep it off.)
The last time I was like this was ... can't really remember.
That one dream with Dennis Trillo in it I remember really well because when I analyzed it, I realized he was sort of a stand-in for somebody. who.
( * )
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| Together apart |
[ mon | 27 july 2009 | 10:03 am ] |
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"The meaning of parallel lines is, lines which pursue exactly the same direction, and which, therefore, neither draw nearer nor go farther from one another"
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| Masanobu Ando is my future ex-husband |
[ fri | 24 july 2009 | 06:25 am ] |
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| Think crucial hanging. Think crayon orange. |
[ sat | 06 june 2009 | 02:31 pm ] |
Crush
Maybe my limbs are made
mostly for decoration,
like the way I feel about
persimmons. You can’t
really eat them. Or you
wouldn’t want to. If you grab
the soft skin with your fist
it somehow feels funny,
like you’ve been here
before and uncomfortable,
too, like you’d rather
squish it between your teeth
impatiently, before spitting
the soft parts back up
to linger on the tongue like
burnt sugar or guilt.
For starters, it was all
an accident, you cut
the right branch
and a sort of light
woke up underneath,
and the inedible fruit
grew dark and needy.
Think crucial hanging.
Think crayon orange.
There is one low, leaning
heart-shaped globe left
and dearest, can you
tell, I am trying
to love you less.
— Ada Limón
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| Eh you'd say and my dream was eh, was all eh, all and only |
[ thu | 21 may 2009 | 12:24 am ] |
EH?
Eh he said and she
dreamed eh. It was
like that between them.
Not that his lips dreamed,
not that his dreamed lips
parted. Eh he’d say
and her dream was eh,
was all eh, all and
only. Sometimes
a near kiss an almost tide
drawn back withdrawn withdrawing.
Sometimes the hackled wave
raised, drew back its lip, sheered
its teeth, coughed its raw
guttural. Or
she herself voicing
involuntary eh
his whatever, his
what-it-is. But
sometimes his naked eh
with her ah alongside—
the rocked hulls nudging nuzzling
or was it scraping what
did she care? Would his eh
oh? How fast she’d
founder, taking on water,
mouth emptying full.
By day she’d hear on the air
his syllable, turn
toward or away, does it
matter? If she said ah
would he dream ah? Oh—
not like that between them.
— Nathalie Anderson
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