My Life in Art
or, Going Somewhere by Train

Get Email Updates

- Other Sites:
xkcd : Romance, sarcasm, math, and language
Sluggy Freelance : Is It Not Nifty?
Penny-Arcade : First One's Always Free
Ctrl-Alt-Del : Tragically 1337
Somthing Positive : Sick, wrong, and evil
Mega-Tokyo : Relax, they understand j00
A Softer World : Turing will always win
The BBC : On Her Majesty's News Service
W[R]H : The Paranoids' News Service
Media Matters : "Where is my cow?"
.gov says... : "Bon Jour, Helen. Nice chapeau."
Git in mae belly! : Daily Feeding Frenzy

- Other Journals:
JS Guru : /var/log/knowledge-junkie
JS Piscis : The Methods and Means of Procrastination
JS Kenny : Geekly Obsessions
JS Jenn : Memory & Reason
Jheyd : Signal 2 Noise
Big Picture : Kooky
Riverbend : Baghdad Burning

My LJ Friendslist : Kare wa tomodachi
LJ Yagaysgs : Medieval Land Reclamation

- My Other Life
ModelMayhem : Look at all the pretty
One Model Place : Look at all the bad Flash
ArtDish : Northwest Arts Forum
Urban Spoon : You hungry? I'm hungry...
DefCon : Everybody Dies

Email Me

Admin Password

Remember Me

553156 Curiosities served
December 2006
Previous Month :: Next Month

13: Not updating here too often any more (0 comments)

Archives: 2006  

When I remember that dizzy summer, that dull, stupid, lovely, dire summer, it seems that in those days I ate my lunches, smelled another's skin, noticed a shade of yellow, even simply sat, with greater lust and hopefulness--and that I lusted with greater faith, hoped with greater abandon. The people I loved were celebrities, surrounded by rumor and fanfare; the places I sat with them, movie lots and monuments. No doubt all of this is not true remembrance but the ruinous work of nostalgia, which obliterates the past, and no doubt, as usual, I have exaggerated everything.

           - Michael Chabon, The Mysteries of Pittsburgh

Why is the measure of love loss?

     It hasn't rained for three months. The trees are prospecting underground, sending reserves of roots into the dry ground, roots like razors to open any artery water-fat.

     The grapes have withered on the vine. What should be plump and firm, resisting the touch to give itself in the mouth, is spongy and blistered. Not this year the pleasure of rolling blue grapes between finger and thumb juicing my palm with musk. Even the wasps avoid the thin brown dribble. Even the wasps this year. It was not always so.

     I am thinking of a certain September: Wood pigeon Red Admiral Yellow Harvest Orange Night. You said, "I love you." Why is it that the most unoriginal thing we can say to one another is still the thing we long to hear? "I love you" is always a quotation. You did not say it first and neither did I, yet when you say it and when I say it we speak like savages who have found three words and worship them. I did worship them but now I am alone on a rock hewn out of my own body.

CALIBAN  You taught me language and my profit on't is
              I know how to curse. The red plague rid you
              For learning me your language.

      - Jeanette Winterson, Written on the Body


What rating is your journal?
brought to you by Quizilla


Powered by JournalScape © 2001-2010 All rights reserved.
All content rights reserved by the author.