January 2012
1 post
May 2011
2 posts
April 2011
1 post
March 2011
2 posts
I like to equate space in sentences to the Buddhist notion of emptiness. Emptiness is not devoid of, or a lack of meaning, rather emptiness indicates a potential. Emptiness is like zero where zero is not an indicator of nothing but the beginning, it is the possibility of what can come after that makes zero so crucial. Emptiness is not empty in the same manner that words are not reality. What I...
August 2010
3 posts
"Now excuse me, I have to go." →
So, there’s a business of being an ‘ordinary person,’ and that business includes attending the world, yourself, others, objects so as to see how it is that it’s a usual scene. And when offering what transpired, you present it in its usual ‘nothing much’ fashion, with whatever variants of banal characterizations you might happen to use, i.e., there’s no...
July 2010
1 post
May 2010
1 post
January 2010
7 posts
In Which We Request a Do-Over On This Last Decade →
October 2009
3 posts
“Heart weeps.
Head tries to help heart.
Head tells heart how it is, again:
You...”
– Lydia Davis, “Head, Heart” via
Eggbeater: Favorite Ingredients →
September 2009
3 posts
What grief displays is the thrall in which our relations with others holds us, in ways that we cannot always recount or explain, in ways that often interrupt the self-conscious account of ourselves we might try to provide, in ways that challenge the very notion of ourselves as autonomous and in control. I might try to tell a story here about what I am feeling, but it would have to be a story in...
Missing me one place search another →
July 2009
1 post
May 2009
4 posts
“[…] he told a story about one of his “prize” Grant Study men, a doctor and...”
– The Atlantic Online | June 2009 | What Makes Us Happy? | Joshua Wolf Shenk (via Grazing Life)
Grief Calls Us to the Things of This World
April 2009
10 posts
2 tags
WatchDerek Jarman, Wittgenstein (1993) @ UbuWeb Film
3 tags
2 tags
4 tags
Watch
March 2009
18 posts
2 tags
1 tag
Nick and the Candlestick
Love, love, I have hung our cave with roses, With soft rugs -
The last of Victoriana. Let the stars Plummet to their dark address,
Let the mercuric Atoms that cripple drip Into the terrible well,
You are the one Solid the spaces lean on, envious. You are the baby in the barn.
Nicholas Hughes, Sylvia Plath’s son commits suicide
[I didn’t know. I’m so sorry.]
reblog: ...
In Lieblicher Bläue →