( And this is what I do when I'm as close to enraged as I can get, which isn't very close, I'll admit. )

Anyone who's ever loved anyone knows that lesbians make the best music. And anyone who's ever had to break up with anybody has a copy of Jagged Little Pill and holds it in very high regard. Not for You Oughta Know, though that's important, but for things like You Learn. And I think of Travis and of Toad the Wet Sprocket and songs like Love Will ( Read more... )

( These songs have kept me feeling okay. )

(I have officially laid down my arms.)

How do I number my joys, when I lose the mind to count wrapped in--what knows all the preludes and etudes and other coded keys to a warm, protected chamber inside me.

( I'm not mad, I'm angry. )

I don't lay awake in bed at night, because the thought of shutting my eyes while lucid is so terrifying that I mistake the disinclination to relax into my own mind for something mundane, like inconvenience or lack of time or necessity. There is always time to settle into the mind. It's terrifying, so it's difficult to do. I was fearless, am ( Read more... )

Odi et amo. Quare id faciam, fortasse requiris?
Nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior.

I sometimes wish that my (de)vices were a little more on edge, cut closer to the bone. I would have smoked myself hoarse, drank myself still to stop from repeating in my head (with the clearest, most curious diction) the names of all of the people whom I owe a debt of learning to, to stop from seeing reels and reels and reels of instances run side- ( Read more... )

Over the break, I've read Murakami's Kafka on the Shore, Martel's Life of Pi, parts of Hume's Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, and the rest of O'Hara's BUtterfield 8.

BUtterfield is fantastic, both smart and diverse and crammed with so much subtle information about this and that (little of it fictionalized, with even the vivacious, ( Read more... )