May 2010
3 posts
1 tag
hear me out
Chelsea Leigh Musee Trescott - A...
1 tag
Sometimes - Written and Voiced by Me, Chelsea...
Sometimes
It’s difficult seeing, to look at her on a Saturday afternoon, and to know, know she also knew, for the first time this will be the last Saturday they sit, coupled and crying, pretending they didn’t know, didn’t see that together they couldn’t move on.
And she knew that soon all she’d have is a memory, because every writer knows, and every writer tries still for more, to somehow be more giving....
February 2010
17 posts
2 tags
Ongoing | Flow.
The artist is comfortable only with going back to the way in which the chaos is first encountered—that is, moment to moment through the senses. Then, selecting from that sensual moment-to-moment experience, picking out bits and pieces of it, reshaping it, she recombines it into an object that a reader in turn encounters as if it were experience itself
–Boot Camp, Robert Olen Butler.
Her...
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Watch
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TONI AGAINST MY LIVINGROOM WALL, Hamburg, Germany...
laurahonse | photography and post by
Toni came by the street of my gallery in the summer with two cousins and somehow we started to chat and then they came in. They are gypsies from Macedonia. I was afraid they would steal something. I think that seeing my work was an unusual event for them. Months later, Toni came back. He wanted a foto taken for his girlfriend in the style which he called...
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Laura Honse.
I’m having a cultural climax. And it feels new-wave, next-levelish. Please, be mindful of such dashes of hilarity. I am feeling right, feeling good, positive, on to something livable. The thing is art won’t quit coming to me, and I to it. An analogy would be: I am San Francisco and its rain is this art, art, art that I’m drenched in. Writer’s block is still massive but...
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claudeleanmusee:
i don’t even have to steal your...
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She came to be.
How did it come to this? My present arachnid state. I was young once, I was beautiful, I was sought after, I had picturesque robes and exceptional talents. I uttered portents in caves: there were lineups, there were waiting lists for them. How did I come to be so tiny, so translucent, so wispy, so whispery? How did I come to be shut up inside this bottle? It’s an unusual story, an incredible...
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florid memory.
Literature - which is art married to thought, and realization untainted by reality - seems to me the end towards which all human effort would have to strive, if it were truly human and not just a welling up of our animal self. To express something is to conserve its virtue and take away its terror. Fields are greener in their description than in their actual greenness. Flowers, if described with...
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photograph | beatrice thornton
As life goes on, we acquire such adroitness in the culture of our pleasures, that we content ourselves with that which we derive from thinking of a woman, as I was thinking of Gilberte, without troubling ourselves to ascertain whether the image corresponds to the reality, - and with the pleasure of loving her, without needing to be sure, also, that she...
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Sam D'Allesandro.
“When it happens it’s like the film broke in mid-reel, you don’t expect it and you’re still expecting everything you were before. Everything in my life except me was suddenly different. Eventually that would make me different too, but it takes a while to catch up. Someone said the pain would go away, but I’m not sure that’s where I want it to go. It’s how...
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tub.
And the world, the world, we could think of, here, to- gether, a flash of instant, a million years of time. Don’t, myself, be an old man yet, I want to move out and into this physical, endless place.
Water moves at the edges, blue, green, white twists of foam. What then will be lost, recovered. What matters as one in this world?
Robert Creeley.
January 2010
5 posts
3 tags
Sediment.
“I wonder why it should be so very difficult to be humble. I do not think I am a good writer; I realize my faults better than anyone else could realize them. I know exactly where I fail. And yet, when I have finished a story about before I have begun another, I catch myself preening my feathers. It is disheartening. There seems to be some bad old pride in my heart; a root of it that...
these short hairs never flip,
or stall the familiar length I watch downward from
kissing everywhere.
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