• The smell of Sunset air at night.
• Dreaming about this graduate school with Belle.
• Vandalism of misogynistic ads.
• Freezer waffles with chutney.
• Using my subway commute time to write letters and read.
• A hot bath at the end of a long day.
• Free tickets to see Adele with Odessa. She was the definition of lovely... her voice, her style, her laugh (she cackles!), her swearing. All under the August stars in an amphitheatre full of true believers. This song was the best part of the night, in my opinion.
• Acknowledging how many crises haven't happened to me (e.g. being an unmarried pregnant student at 20).
• Hilarity and snark with my co-workers.
• Soy "chicken" tenders.
• A reunion with Enya. I've listened to her my entire life — she's literally playing in the background of my first memory — so her songs carry such a sense of continuity and selfhood — history — for me.
• An old King Arthur book to fall asleep to.
• The prospect of summer rainstorms over the next few weeks in New England and the Midwest.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Gray Sunday
As every Sunday is on the seaward side of San Francisco at this time of year.
I'm scanning passages from this book and listening to Two Bicycles and Grouper.
My job right now consists of talking to strangers and convincing them to donate money. I didn't do well yesterday because I was in a misanthropic mood and the sun downtown was too hot and bright for my British-Isles-pale fogdwelling self (sunburned my eyeballs, guh), but the day did bring two of the coolest people I've met since starting.
They were sisters from Canada, I guess in their sixties or early seventies, and the talkative one was telling me all kinds of stories from the Women's Liberation Movement...about seeing Andrea Dworkin in this particular cafe in New York every morning and how she was really a very sweet person, etc. She was giving me names of second-wave feminist poets to write down and look up. It was a jewel of a conversation.
I'm going away for a few weeks to visit people. Primarily my freshman-year roommate, whom I haven't seen in THREE YEARS, and our former suitemate. Both New Englanders. It's been ages since I've gotten on an airplane by myself, with just a bag and the prospect of being away and somewhere unfamiliar for a while. I miss the feeling of that. I have grown roots in the last couples of years, and that's good too, but. There's always something or someplace to want.
(I banned myself from international traveling in early 2010, to think about contentment and luxury and consumption. Even though I've mostly been broke since then anyway, far-sickness still knocks.)
(I dreamed again last night about being back in Iceland. I have some variation of that dream about once a month or so. Like petrifying wood, the reality in memory is gradually replaced by dreamness and the imaginings of longing.)
I'm scanning passages from this book and listening to Two Bicycles and Grouper.
My job right now consists of talking to strangers and convincing them to donate money. I didn't do well yesterday because I was in a misanthropic mood and the sun downtown was too hot and bright for my British-Isles-pale fogdwelling self (sunburned my eyeballs, guh), but the day did bring two of the coolest people I've met since starting.
They were sisters from Canada, I guess in their sixties or early seventies, and the talkative one was telling me all kinds of stories from the Women's Liberation Movement...about seeing Andrea Dworkin in this particular cafe in New York every morning and how she was really a very sweet person, etc. She was giving me names of second-wave feminist poets to write down and look up. It was a jewel of a conversation.
I'm going away for a few weeks to visit people. Primarily my freshman-year roommate, whom I haven't seen in THREE YEARS, and our former suitemate. Both New Englanders. It's been ages since I've gotten on an airplane by myself, with just a bag and the prospect of being away and somewhere unfamiliar for a while. I miss the feeling of that. I have grown roots in the last couples of years, and that's good too, but. There's always something or someplace to want.
(I banned myself from international traveling in early 2010, to think about contentment and luxury and consumption. Even though I've mostly been broke since then anyway, far-sickness still knocks.)
(I dreamed again last night about being back in Iceland. I have some variation of that dream about once a month or so. Like petrifying wood, the reality in memory is gradually replaced by dreamness and the imaginings of longing.)
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
This photo is a tribute to Tumblr
What else to do with Angled Light On Rumpled Sheets and Romantic Dreams of Travel, complete with Vintage Suitcase?
Monday, August 15, 2011
April, looking out from a fourth-floor dormer
For the third night straight,
I have been awake to see the night through
And it is hard to see
dawn's approach through the rain.
Until you see.
I have been awake to see the night through
And it is hard to see
dawn's approach through the rain.
Until you see.
Friday, August 12, 2011
There’s nothing to do but I don’t mind when I’m with you
I escaped from vacation for a night last week to visit my soul-friend Erin. We got in a car accident and spent about four hours stuck in a parking lot in Santa Ana, and it was still great.
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