| |
[Oct. 5th, 2011|10:01 pm] |
My major regret in life is that my childhood was unnecessarily lonely.
Truman Capote |
|
|
| |
[Oct. 5th, 2011|09:52 pm] |
Beauty is ever to the lonely mind a shadow fleeting; she is never plain. She is a visitor who leaves behind the gift of grief, the souvenir of pain.
Christopher Morley |
|
|
| |
[Aug. 2nd, 2011|07:07 pm] |
I only go out to get me a fresh appetite for being alone.
Lord Byron |
|
|
| |
[Jan. 11th, 2011|10:08 pm] |
It is strange how we hold on to the pieces of the past while we wait for our futures.
Ally Condie
Matched |
|
|
| |
[Dec. 14th, 2010|01:46 pm] |
You don't have a soul. You are a Soul. You have a body.
C.S. Lewis. |
|
|
| |
[Dec. 14th, 2010|01:46 pm] |
Screaming is bad for the voice, but it's good for the heart.
Conor Oberst |
|
|
| |
[Dec. 14th, 2010|01:45 pm] |
This time,like all times, is a good time, if we but know what to do with it.
Ralph Waldo Emerson |
|
|
| |
[Dec. 14th, 2010|01:45 pm] |
There are three classes of people: those who see. Those who see when they are shown. Those who do not see.
Leonardo da Vinci |
|
|
| |
[Dec. 14th, 2010|01:45 pm] |
Everything you want is out there waiting for you to ask. Everything you want also wants you. But you have to take action to get it.
Jules Renard |
|
|
| |
[Dec. 14th, 2010|01:43 pm] |
Never let a problem to be solved become more important than the person to be loved.
Barbara Johnson |
|
|
| |
[Dec. 14th, 2010|01:42 pm] |
If God had wanted me otherwise, He would have created me otherwise.
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe |
|
|
| |
[Dec. 14th, 2010|01:42 pm] |
Nature uses as little as possible of anything.
Johannes Kepler |
|
|
| |
[Dec. 14th, 2010|01:38 pm] |
so you want to be a writer?
if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don't do it.
if you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.
if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don't do it.
if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
don't do it.
if you're trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.
if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.
if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.
don't be like so many writers,
don't be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don't be dull and boring and
pretentious, don't be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don't add to that.
don't do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don't do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don't do it.
when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.
there is no other way.
and there never was.
Charles Bukowski |
|
|
| |
[Dec. 14th, 2010|01:38 pm] |
|
Nostalgia is like a grammar lesson: you find the present tense, but the past perfect! Owens Lee Pomeroy |
|
|
| |
[Dec. 14th, 2010|01:37 pm] |
All She Wrote
by Harryette Mullen
Forgive me, I’m no good at this. I can’t write back. I never read your letter.
I can’t say I got your note. I haven’t had the strength to open the envelope.
The mail stacks up by the door. Your hand’s illegible. Your postcards were
defaced. Wash your wet hair? Any document you meant to send has yet to
reach me. The untied parcel service never delivered. I regret to say I’m
unable to reply to your unexpressed desires. I didn’t get the book you sent.
By the way, my computer was stolen. Now I’m unable to process words. I
suffer from aphasia. I’ve just returned from Kenya and Korea. Didn’t you
get a card from me yet? What can I tell you? I forgot what I was going to
say. I still can’t find a pen that works and then I broke my pencil. You know
how scarce paper is these days. I admit I haven’t been recycling. I never
have time to read the Times. I’m out of shopping bags to put the old news
in. I didn’t get to the market. I meant to clip the coupons. I haven’t read
the mail yet. I can’t get out the door to work, so I called in sick. I went to
bed with writer’s cramp. If I couldn’t get back to writing, I thought I’d catch
up on my reading. Then Oprah came on with a fabulous author plugging
her best selling book. |
|
|
| |
[Dec. 2nd, 2010|01:15 am] |
When we're lucky enough to risk expressive endeavors, no telling what will happen next. We're rooting for life, stumbling, picking up what we find when we fall.
Naomi Shihab Nye |
|
|
| |
[Nov. 26th, 2010|04:56 pm] |
Either you decide to stay in the shallow end of the pool or you go out in the ocean.
-Christopher Reeve |
|
|
| |
[Nov. 26th, 2010|04:55 pm] |
Even if you're on the right track, you'll get run over if you just sit there. -Will Rogers
If you tell the truth you don't have to remember anything. -Mark Twain
Misery loves company, but company does not reciprocate. -Addison Mizner
Ordinarily he was insane, but he had lucid moments when he was merely stupid. -Heinrich Heine
People are lonely because they build walls instead of bridges. -Joseph F. Newton |
|
|
| |
[Nov. 26th, 2010|04:54 pm] |
"Anniversary" by Davi Walders
Anniversary
That you and I, I and you,
this twenty-fifth year after
you stamped your foot, shattered
the glass, and friends, so many dead
or forgotten, applauded in a ballroom
long abandoned, twenty-five years
of Monday good-byes, monthly wars
with stacks of bills, bags of garbage,
frozen gutters, nights filled
with pink medicines, fevered cheeks
on shoulders, the other hand reaching
for the pediatrician's call, termites
chewing, and hours waiting
for the door to open, holding
our own daughter's head vomiting
beer into our own leaking toilet,
that now, as mirrors mark the descent
of breasts, the tub catches silvered
pubic hair and our eyes wear pouches
and hoods, as though expecting rain,
that you and I could smell the salt
of each other, coming together after
long absence, silent, still, staring up
at the darkening ceiling, naked in a house
with empty, orderly bedrooms, the last
of dead roses and discarded boyfriends
tossed out, your hand touching mine,
our breathing slowing,
the wonder of it all. |
|
|
| |
[Nov. 26th, 2010|04:52 pm] |
"Pulling Up Beside My Husband at the Stoplight" by Marjorie Saiser
Pulling Up Beside My Husband at the Stoplight
We are going to the same place
but we take two cars. Sunday morning
and there's not much traffic
so I pull up beside him at the light.
The sun is shining on the road.
Here he is in his car
beside my car,
the curve of his shoulder
through the glass, his face
fresh from a shave, his hair
against the brown of his neck.
He turns and blows me a kiss.
I watch it float on by. I ask
for another. I think of him
coming into the dark bedroom
in the mornings,
the sound of his workboots
across the carpet,
the scent of his face
when he finds me in the covers,
pulls the blanket away and
kisses my eyebrow,
the corner of my mouth,
tells me the weather report
and the precise time of day.
I roll down the window,
whistle in my throat,
pull my glasses crooked on my face,
do my best baboon snorting,
pound the horn
as if it were bread dough.
There's only the lady in the white Taurus
but he is embarrassed, glad to see the green.
I'm stepping on the gas,
catching up, wondering
what I can do at 56th and Calvert. |
|
|