March 2012
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Anonymous asked: hey let’s go out for cheeseburgers, become friends, and end up in a romantic relationship together
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Selected Scenes | Romanticism
“No,” he said “what I am thinking now is something more sinister to your general temper. What I am thinking now is that a man in my situation isn’t too high up on the totem pole. What I’m thinking now is that there’s something to be said about the realist and modern writers—something they understood better than any of us.” “what’s that?” she asked and he didn’t bother letting the question...
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“‘It is hard to find a friend,’ I said.
‘It is the hardest...”
– The Sisters Brothers, Patrick deWitt
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“Mayfield said, ‘You asked what I was thinking. Well, I will tell you. I...”
– The Sisters Brothers, Patrick deWitt
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“It isn’t enough to be lucky, I thought. A man has to be balanced in his...”
– The Sisters Brothers, Patrick deWitt
February 2012
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A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world. -Oscar Wilde
There’s this dream I once had where I’m standing in the middle of the Disneyworld, gazing up at the large castle in the center of the park. My friends are with me, they’re all wearing goofy shirts that feature Mickey Mouse or Donald...
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Historical Vertigo
He was freckled skin against the backdrop of tossed and turned sheets, rainy Monday mornings, and outdoor parades through rivers and mountains—sea-shell-sanded beaches, book in hand, letting the water wade in over our toes. He told me once how he could spend hours looking at the cityscapes; he said the buildings always gave him what he called, “historical vertigo” as he was forced...
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February 29th, 2011
It is February 29th, 2011 and the sun is flushed and flashed upon the cherry-peach faces of the day-to-dayers who sit at the cafe and talk on politics, American literature, Impressionistic art, and hopeless crushes on bright-eyed boys and girls, who they wish to wed—if only for a day.
I am walking past these people, to my own destination. I catch only a glimpse or glimmer of each of them,...
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smallandeverthinning asked: You know how sometimes when you read a book, you imagine the characters as people you know or know of? Well I'm reading the book Why We Broke Up by Daniel Handler and for some reason you are the character Al. I'm sorry if that's weird, it just happened! lol maybe I shouldn't have told you..
entrappedthoughts asked: I'm hungry... Are you hungry?
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There are all these things that float around and you see, each one of these things is sort of just hanging around in the air—slipping away really. I can see that; it’s as if I’m watching everything just slip away, watching everything just disappear before me and I can’t stop it. So I write because in some way there’s that ability to keep things together; if I can...
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Seventeen
I am sitting there and watching you, dreaming of a reality where you and I would intertwine— praying—for a moment of talk. A brief word. A conversation. A spark to come.
I am dreaming of horrible nightmarish things like love with you, or life with you. And you are belittled— you are trash disgusting vile that makes my stomach churn. I am sitting there waiting and that spark...
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There are moments locked down deep in our minds; cascading images that saunter in and out of past and present, dig deep and are imprinted upon ourselves—our DNA—transmitted through generations. Images and memories that lock themselves in our genes, overlapping themes of our forefathers: past and present, depressions and angers; all wrapped around our present body: transmitted through...
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Anonymous asked: I love you for liking the hunger games
multicoloredhues asked: Somedays I just completely envy your ability to write these beautiful long pieces of prose that just flow so well. You are one of my favorites on tumblr.
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Do not speak to me on such things as days gone past, they mean nothing to me, afford me nothing of substance but the unsubstantial desire for rectification. There is a saying that I felt I once knew; an old proverb or psalm that spoke of the glory that is the present. “Weep not for me, but for what I have failed to do.” some forgotten memory that lingers on in my brain, that bounces...
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Food for thought:
If a person born in America spends the majority of their life in England, should they even be considered an american poet/writer? Personally I don’t think anyone can be considered an American writer unless they have the balls to reject the trivial notion of an uncultured America and choose to—instead of running of to England—stay in their home land and find beauty there.
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Two men meet
There was a ping of involvement in the air as yet another reason for being fell out of the lamplight and onto the sidewalk. The two men sat staring at each other underneath the sanctity of the streetlamps—neither one saying a word. Both just stood looking at the other, as if they were measuring the other up, trying to find a reason to trust—or not to trust—the figure before them....
Anonymous asked: You're a beautiful writer.
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Seeing how I've finished more than half of my...
(Keep in mind that I’m trying to focus more on modern day literature, but I’m still open to reading older works)
What are some books, not on the current list, that I absolutely must pick up?
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Write songs in your sleep.: Interviewed. →
deartoday:
Beck leans against the wall and closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. I don’t say anything to him, waiting for him to be ready to speak. After several moments of stiff silence, he opens his eyes and smiles briefly. I expect him to tell me what’s on his mind, but instead, he reaches for my bag.
“What?” I demand, unwilling to surrender my over sized satchel without knowing why....
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I'll Be Fine
i.
Kristin is throwing a 50’s doo-wop party in her rundown house on the outskirts of the university; a bit down the road—a bike’s ride away or so. She’s got this big pink hoopskirt on and she’s put enough hairspray in her hair to punch another hole in the atmosphere. The whole place is littered with trinkets and decorations straight out of the 50’s; she’s going all out, “an end of...
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#3006
The principles of the current are disillusions of the sane-man; forced images and laws of nature that tasteless humans unknowingly give into, for fear of the alternative. Sam sits near the corner store and waits for Maria to exit. He’s hoping that sometime soon they can make the pilgrimage up to forty-fourth street, where is grandfather had lived—before he passed away. It’s been...
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Such as It Is | Catalyst #1
Catalyst #1
There’s a nervous movement of fingers flicking over each other; twiddling behind the stage as the audience slows into a silence. She looks down at her knees—shaking—her stomach churning feels like a great storm has rushed through her insides. She catches a glimpse of herself in the reflective surfaces; an image of her flashing forward and backwards through time. First she is...
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We looked forward to the moments where nights spent—fingers intertwined—would be not just a fairy tale; a temporary point on the spectrum of reality, but instead would be permanent, non-fleeting: stuck. Then the lights went up, the trees were in full glorious amber bloom; little fireflies of light dotting the edges of leaves and around the trunk of such lustrous things that hung above...
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There was a moment of fleeting heartbeat, fluttering eyes, and freckled flesh spun around in the great big eye of the Texas sun. All things were present—affixed to the current position—unable to change. Constantly rigid. Then the world split and Icarus fell into the void.
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Unwanted
The ripening berries are thrown away, uneaten— unwanted.
Sometimes I think the only reason I even continue to write or pursue any sort of English-related career, is simply because I don’t know how to do anything else and even with that, this is clearly not working out for me, clearly I need to be logical and assess the situation and understand that what I’m offering isn’t simply “ill-wanted” it’s just bad.
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Lucifer at best
Lucas would scrunch his brow, and blow out in a huff, when I woke him in the morning by calling him angel. His hair fell in blond curls on the top of his head, was pushed around in the constant turn-about of the night, and left him to wake with clumps of blond resting above his pale blue eyes. He would look up at the ceiling and wait for me to stop; he’d advert his eyes from mine, staring...
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Portrait of a Man
Williams knows nothing, of blossoming appletree thighs, as I do.
Fleshing thighs that stick around, hang like polished truth Upon such fragile branches, Pink and fresh—mouthwatering.
Then you move and holler out, “Curse Rococo and Watteau!” and embrace instead the supple joy of bare-flesh against cold hands.
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The Strawberries
The strawberries taste so delicate on my tongue; fresh bursts of red, flavor unmatched, that hangs above, and drops to the tongue: satisfying.
applespirate asked: Sorry if you've answered this before, but what do you plan on doing with your artsy awesomeness career-wise?