something about this just makes me feel old.
what was the last complete thought i had? i looked at my notebook; no help there, wrote down something the other day, just a fragment: 'straining for beauty in each industrial sunset.' i drive the same route every day down canal street. it gets dark at half past four and i see the sunset through the power lines. it's dark too early. year to year we never get used to this.
i turn on the lamp my father bought each evening in the foyer. over the summer i would get home and open up the shades to let some light in, but by the time i get here now there isn't any reason to. it's cold, which makes it hard to think complete thoughts.
the last few days it's been the wrong kind of cold, the first of the two kinds of cold that are hurtful. it isn't the one that physically hurts and overpowers you with its bite. it's the other one, the one that comes earlier-- the cold that promises warmth. the spring cold. if it weren't for the leaves and the month i could swear it's march. i constantly stop myself from thinking thoughts of that time, realising that it would entail living in anticipation of the moment i get to start living in anticipation of spring. i do enough of that in february. it becomes an aesthetic hobby.
it should be the cold that promises more cold, because that's what there is to be sure of. november, december, and the inevitable progression of winter. the dying year's last gasps echoing through the familial warmth of some denominated eves.
i turn on the lamp my father bought each evening in the foyer. over the summer i would get home and open up the shades to let some light in, but by the time i get here now there isn't any reason to. it's cold, which makes it hard to think complete thoughts.
the last few days it's been the wrong kind of cold, the first of the two kinds of cold that are hurtful. it isn't the one that physically hurts and overpowers you with its bite. it's the other one, the one that comes earlier-- the cold that promises warmth. the spring cold. if it weren't for the leaves and the month i could swear it's march. i constantly stop myself from thinking thoughts of that time, realising that it would entail living in anticipation of the moment i get to start living in anticipation of spring. i do enough of that in february. it becomes an aesthetic hobby.
it should be the cold that promises more cold, because that's what there is to be sure of. november, december, and the inevitable progression of winter. the dying year's last gasps echoing through the familial warmth of some denominated eves.
previous posts
- year waxing, year waning
- short refrains for the end of october
- saturday moment of hypnotic talking heads cover
- still a little closer each day
- those darn hobgoblins are everywhere
- you do what you do best, not what's best to do
- oh, right, it's october
- criticism
- the problem with my writing, summarised
- human voices wake us
archives
- April 2006
- May 2006
- June 2006
- July 2006
- August 2006
- September 2006
- October 2006
- November 2006
- December 2006
- January 2007
- February 2007
- March 2007
- April 2007
- May 2007
- June 2007
- July 2007
- August 2007
- September 2007
- October 2007
- November 2007
- December 2007
- January 2008
- February 2008
- March 2008
- April 2008
- May 2008
- June 2008
- July 2008
- August 2008
- September 2008
- October 2008
- November 2008
- December 2008
- January 2009
- February 2009
- March 2009
- April 2009
- May 2009
- June 2009
- July 2009
- August 2009
- September 2009
- December 2009
- January 2010
- April 2010
also me
- city lines magazine
- twitter (annus_mirabilis)
- ashley (almost a love song)
- kayleigh (i [verb] you)
- nicole (raise your hopeful voice)
- alli (what an odd-sized explosion.)
- haven kimmel's blog
- sara benincasa
- wonkette
- i blame the patriarchy
- who is ioz?
- a softer world
- toothpaste for dinner
- natalie dee
- married to the sea
- dinosaur comics
- xkcd
- terror island
- the perry bible fellowship
- cat and girl
- björk
- the decemberists
- the weakerthans
- sigur rós
- stephin merritt
- norfolk & western
- the essex green
- of montreal
- elephant 6
- arts&crafts
- laura veirs
- mary timony
- cbc
- alt weeklies
- al jazeera english
- george galloway
- marxists internet archive
- world socialist web site
- the pinky show
- quotidiana
- exit mundi
- the millennial abyss
- the revealer
- killing the buddha
- the brick testament
- colbert nation
- mcsweeney's internet tendency
- the brazen head
- iq infinity: the unknown james joyce
- ulysses by james joyce
- the leonard cohen files
- only revolutions
- luminarium
- geoffrey chaucer hath a blog
- haven kimmel
- purity of heart
- banana yoshimoto
- jeanette winterson
blogs
webcomics
music
news and political
curiosity, entertainery, and literary
about
-
me: aspiring writer, 'music nerd,' seeker of beautiful moments, college student, armchair theologian, nominal quaker, 'the diet coke of emo with no caffeine,' eclectic left-winger, and generally someone who thinks about things too much.
this: unedited, uninhibited, and uninteresting thoughts, nebulous stream-of-consciousness ramblings of memory, inside jokes, obscure references, emotional paroxysms, and slices of life. sometimes there are pictures.
what people are saying about me
'...something entirely different from anybody i've ever known.'
- krystin
'...a nice boy.'
- laura
'...a maoist!'
- greg
'...elevate[s] emotional self-destructiveness to an art form.'
- greg
'...my favorite pixie.'
- lizzie
'...a damn good conversationalist.'
- kelly
'...blue-raspberry [pie]! or or maybe cranberry raisin.'
- becky
'i feel like a wide eyed kid in the socialist candy store...and [he's] the clerk.'
- christine
'...far too sensible and perceptive to be straight.'
- catherine
'...not british.'
- catherine
'...would have made a good medieval monk. one of the non-crooked ones.'
- catherine
'...should have been born a dolphin.'
- elizabeth
ATOM 0.3
'life was just a series of things i'd read about coming true.'
-- michelle tea, the chelsea whistle
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