Two books from the mid-1800s, given to me by a friend.
Antique Books: Cornell’s Primary Geography and Cushing’s Manual (Rules of Proceeding and Debate in Deliberative Assemblies). Both copies are from the 1850s.
I didn’t feel like writing last night, so I did this:
Peanut Butter Nutella Cookies
Baking always banishes my creative lethargy.
Kurt Vonnegut Quote
Happy Birthday, Kurt Vonnegut! You were, are, and always will be one of my very favourite writers and humans. Your time on planet Earth made the place better for all of us. You are missed, now and forever.
U.S. Army Portrait of Kurt Vonnegut, 1940s
“A purpose of human life, no matter who is controlling it, is to love whoever is around to be loved.”-Kurt Vonnegut, The Sirens of Titan
Detail of a painting of my Grandpa, 1946. He was 19.
My Grandpa, 1946.
Results Are In: Pablo Neruda Was Not Poisoned [HUFF POST BOOKS]
However, his family is not convinced.
For more on this story, go here.
2014 Writer’s Market
My copy arrived in the mail yesterday. Squee.
It is finally autumn. Ecstatic autumn! Leaves are swirling and twirling and leaping about with Bacchanalian satisfaction. They are throwing a street party to end all street parties. Death is near, but until then it is a wicked celebration 24/7. Their orange, gold, and dark red forms flee rakes and tumble out of bags. They fall from trees to dance in the gutters and under the bodies of dirty cars. Leaves, so joyous, loll about in moments of repose, only to be bruised and trampled under dogs’ feet or sat upon by careless children. Death is near, and they know it: until then, they will dance on the wind.
*
It is finally autumn. Ecstatic autumn! In the late afternoon I take my place: curtains open, cup of tea in hand, elbow on windowsill.The sun sets early, beyond the white and dove grey apartment house across the street. The sky is relentlessly pale, diluted even in twilight to a bleak rose or chalky orange: bold colours are too busy dressing the leaves to have anything to spare. It’s their yearly dying wish, one cannot blame them. We have four seasons, they have less. As the masses of crisp leaves move and heave they give off a sound like the cawing of crows. Duncan barks and noses the pane, desperate to be loosed with apocalyptic fervor on these unknown fiends. Death is near, and they know it: until then, they will dance on the wind. The sights and smells are fleeting, of this and every other season. Dogs dream of chasing leaves, but will settle for a bone. As for me, I will drink down my tea and write some elegiac words instead.
*
It is finally autumn. Ecstatic autumn! Leaves are swirling and twirling and leaping about with Bacchanalian satisfaction. They are throwing a street party to end all street parties. Death is near, but until then it is a wicked celebration 24/7. Their orange, gold, and dark red forms flee rakes and tumble out of bags. They fall from trees to dance in the gutters and under the bodies of dirty cars. Leaves, so joyous, loll about in moments of repose, only to be bruised and trampled under dogs’ feet or sat upon by careless children. Death is near, and they know it: until then, they will dance on the wind.
Look what hit newsstands today…
Lou Reed/Rolling Stone
I’m about to curl up on the couch with a cup of tea and dig in to the magazine. Laurie Anderson is going to break my heart.
Laurie Anderson/Rolling Stone
“For 21 Years We Tangled Our Minds and Hearts Together” by Laurie Anderson. Sigh.
A Small Press Life: Books. Art. Writing. Life. Tea. 