"In his time, the old man had often seen paradise: jagged panes, lightning angles, the unformulated glory of smashed leaded glass. In Paris in 1924 he had watched a workman accidentally drop from a second-story scaffolding a windowpane, which had broken on the stones of the Quai Voltaire. The shattered glass on the sidewalk contained the geometrical shapes of paradise: transparent isosceles edges, razors: glass made beautiful by fracture and accidents of force. He had wanted his poems to be as beautiful as that broken glass. He wanted them to cut into the skin and evoke the bloodflow."
- Charles Baxter, excerpt from The Old Fascist in Retirement.
may possibly be the most beautifully depressing short story i've ever read. gabriel garcia marquez does often evoke such emotion in me that i am unable to explain myself in words...but baxter's story about the struggle of old Ezra Pound and his circling descent into dementia even managed to describe the sensation of being without words; there is a passage in the story which depicts the actual inability to speak...the writer's worst torture.
to the beautiful man who looks similar to omar epps: do not be so melancholy. your eyes carry with them a certain levity that cannot be escaped, and i felt in me a desire to erase every hurt in your body. it passed eventually, after you had been gone for awhile. its funny how someone i've only even seen once can have such a great impact on my whole day - mentioned in my online outpouring of thought, even. there was the faintest hint of cigarette smoke hanging in the air along observatory dr. last afternoon. it stirred memories that did not exist; nose in the air, eyes closed, breathe in and in and in...in the smoke that contained so many years of wishing for something better. ironic, because i've never wanted to smoke. at least not tangibly...but somehow it seems like the cigarette-smoking boys always have more intriguing words spilling from their mouths. perhaps it's just the husky-voiced vibrato that lingers behind in my ears after they've explained why the vacant field had more soul when it was covered with invisible blackbirds. and instead of being blackbirds, they were men. men in black woolen suit jackets, carrying black umbrellas through blackened naked forests. the light was shifting, squinting and blinking between the crooks of the branches, leaving a lasting impression of orange and yellow on the skeleton of the trees nearest the fading sun. the men never had faces. they were all striding towards a staircase, which was crumbling and missing three steps. cobwebs. a door at the top...no one ever opened the door. they all just stood in a line, staring towards the ceiling, which had been gone since 1973. this is the story smoky-voiced boys tell me from time to time. the details change a bit every now and again... but the men never have faces. and they always start off being blackbirds.
- having random spanish conversations with a grizzled old cuban man on a bicycle in the middle of state street
-dark chocolate covered raspberries
- ani difranco's 'looking for the holes'
-literature raptures and philosophical quandries on porches in the evening ['you buy my book and i'll buy yours!']
-dance parties and singalongs
-death cab for cutie's new cd, specifically 'i will follow you into the dark'
-rum and coke(s)
-being excited for the following upcoming events...
a) All About My Mother (Todo sobre mi madre), Rize, and Me and You and Everyone We Know coming to the Play Circle Theatre
b) ben folds on october 26th
c) the visit of kristen marie barnes to madison, WI.
- green apple gum
this was a work in progress. of approximately three days. forgive us, we're rather flaky. [and also apparently schizophrenic. ]
If heaven and hell decide That they both are satisfied Illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs If there's no one beside you When your soul embarks Then I'll follow you into the dark