Tammam Azzam, Freedom graffiti
‘Kiss by Klimt’ painted on the remains of a building hit by bombs and bullets.
1. While driving me to my train platform today, after breaking the news that he’d put in his two week notice at work, my coworker B told me that he was onto me. “For every one sincere thing you say, you nervously rattle off four more sarcastic ones to shield yourself. I will miss you too.” I could only laugh. There is no subtle mathematics to this algorithm of my nervousness, of my self-defense. I am thankful for people who see that as a transparency.
2. Drunk in the kitchen on Saturday night we sang El Scorcho at the top of our lungs and everyone was hands in the air, dancing. This is what I will always remember those faces by. Sloppy but smiling. Front porch swings, whiskey shots, house plants. What a shallow, joyous history we have.
3. At brunch, the light cuts just right and Lou Reed is sweetly playing through the speakers and the steam from your coffee is lazily unfolding and I think, for the first time in too long a time, about how good things can be. About the unlimited potential of this.
4. Sunday night, Rachel McKibbens said "all of us have things that kind of chase us."
5. All over the city, graffiti has showed up that just says hold your own hand. Maybe I’m writing this to say I’m not so sure that’s the thing I want anymore.
Sylvia Plath (via incorrectsylviaplathquotes)
A haiku from the article: Disillusionment in Libya Over Vote on Charter Assembly
It’s right before you drive away:
our limbs still warm with sleep,
coffee sputtering out, the north
wind, your hips pressing me
hard against the table. I like it hard
because I need to remember this.
I want to say harder. How we must
look to the road that’s gone,
to the splayed morning of cold
butter and inveterate greed.
Light comes and goes in the field.
Oranges in a bowl, garlic, radio.
In the story of us, no one wins.
Isolation is a new theme
someone says. By now
I’ve invented you. Most people
don’t like to touch dead things.
That’s what my friend tells me
when I find my fish on the floor.
It must have wanted an out.
Sometimes my desire scares me.
Sometimes I watch football
and think: four chances
is enough to get there. But
we don’t have helmets.
I want to say harder,
I can take it, but
there’s no proof I can.
In the Kitchen/Stacie Cassarino
This city is beauty
unbreakable and amorous as eyelids,
in the streets, pressed with fierce departures,
I am innocent as thresholds
and smashed night birds, lovesick,
as empty elevators
let me declare doorways,
corners, pursuit, let me say
standing here in eyelashes, in
invisible breasts, in the shrinking lake
in the tiny shops of untrue recollections,
the brittle, gnawed life we live,
I am held, and held
why, the touch of everything blushes me,
pigeons and wrecked boys,
half dead hours, blind musicians,
inconclusive women in bruised dresses
even the habitual gray-suited men with terrible
briefcases, how come, how come
I anticipate nothing as intimate as history
would I have had a different life
failing this embrace with broken things,
iridescent veins, ecstatic bullets, small cracks
in the brain, would I know these particular facts,
how a phrase scars a cheek, how water
dries love out, this, a thought as casual
as any second eviscerates a breath
and this, we meet in careless intervals,
in coffee bars, gas stations, in prosthetic
conversations, lotteries, untranslatable
mouths, in versions of what we may be,
a tremor of the hand in the realization
of endings, a glancing blow of tears
on skin, the keen dismissal in speed
Digital Witness/St. Vincent