a scattering

"and I gut the heavens and bleed their light and swim in that"

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fall mood board 1

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Don DeLillo, ca. 2011. Photograph by Thousandrobots A man who’s been called “the chief shaman of the paranoid school of American fiction” can be expected to act a little nervous. I met Don DeLillo for the first time in an Irish restaurant in Manhattan, for a conversation...

“A writer takes earnest measures to secure his solitude and then finds endless ways to squander it. “

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Juliana Spahr

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Charles Olson

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who’s blood

whose hands

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annalise laughs from her perch a gold field in an empty room

a loom in the corner of the attic hanna learned to weave, forgot

i’ve returned to many places

searched for many words and worlds i write to make myself throw up

adrift somewhere beyond the passenger seat tim drives as i clutch my stomach

moaning, breathing heavily in a rite aid checkout line while

my dad paid for my prescription and i’m leaving again and i’m leaving again

and i’m leaving again and i don’t want to move to california

in the parking lot a woman’s necklace swings against her sternum

the etching of her son’s face hangs just above her breast my vincent, she cries to my father

as he bends to hug her fragile frame my breathing evens

hand on my shoulder, closing car door waiting in the dark for a tow truck while

elana’s neighbors fight then fuck i welcome either

a hundred vacant years stretched in silent space between our bodies bent bare in bed

roaming and wounded, wet with wanting, a short goodbye

road, the only place my mind can stand and barely. it sings to distract itself and i

bite my own arm, focus on the stretch of street where a slick rainbow sits waiting

then gone: a mirage caused by refraction

[noworldconcerto]

Harmony Korine & Chloë Sevigny

[fuckyeahmrleonardcohen]

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mmmmm. listening to him sad in texas, happy in texas, in an attic in seattle with my best friends, crying and lovely. thank you, l. cohen.

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Capitalism’s Crisis of Care | Dissent Magazine

“I always thought that Sheryl Sandberg’s ‘lean in’ idea was ironic; it is only possible for her readership to envision leaning in at the corporate boardroom in so far as they can lean on the low-paid care workers. . . .”

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WHY THE THRASHER LOGO SENDS ME INTO A RAGE BLACKOUT

I’ll wear the sweatshirt he let me borrow and remember the time we had sex in a stranger’s shower on New Years, the second time we ever met. We’ll talk for months and he’ll promise to visit. He won’t. We’ll facetime while I’m in bed with Hanna and he’ll say he likes my haircut and that he wants to bury his face in my neck and Hanna will say guys come on and I’ll smile.

We’ll make a list of things we want to do together and only do a handful. He’ll promise me a helicopter ride. He’ll say I hope you’re ready to spend every day together. We won’t.

But on my first day back he’ll wrap his arms around my waist and say he’s so happy I’m here. I’ll sit beside him on a curb that night outside of a punk show and we’ll be drunk and I’ll rub my hands through his hair and he’ll groan. We’ll eat endless appetizers at TGI Fridays and laugh.

And he will spell everything wrong all the time. And we’ll slow dance to I Can’t Help Falling in Love With You and I’ll wonder how true the lyrics will prove to be. We’ll walk through the arboretum at night and sit on a bench and I’ll think it would be nice to kiss in the light of the skyline, but instead we’ll walk back to his house in silence. We won’t hold hands. And on another night we’ll get into a fight and he’ll hang up on me and then he’ll apologize and I’ll cry and it won’t be the last time.

He’ll tell me he can’t love me because I’m leaving and I’ll spend the summer trying to decide if he would if I wasn’t.

Before he leaves for work we’ll have sex and he’ll say I want to 69 with you! And I’ll laugh and say next time. He won’t introduce me to his friends. He’ll use the wrong your.

And I’ll feel guilty that everything I write ends up about love and why I can’t seem to find it. I’ll struggle to answer why, in a world of terrors, I only want to write about the space between our shoulders when we watch a movie on the couch and the nights I spend in his bed when we don’t touch or even kiss and isn’t it too soon for that?

Why I compulsively check his social media to see where he is and why he’s not with me and why he doesn’t care and why it makes me feel so crazy. And why I try to play it cool and not remind myself of what I think I deserve.

I’ll try not to wonder what happened since the time I sent him my writing, when he said he wanted to kiss me after each sentence or the time we stayed at a Super 8 and he rubbed my back and met my parents and they said he was a nice boy. Or when he apologized a different time and we went home and had sex and he said baby baby you fuck me so good, and I’ll try not to remember that this was the only time he ever called me that.

Instead I’ll drive home slightly drunk the night before I leave town after he didn’t even kiss me goodbye and I’ll gasp through my sobs and punch the dashboard and curse us both for being such fools. I’ll tell him how much he has hurt me, tell him to fuck himself.

The next day I’ll apologize. He’ll say I hope we can still be cool. I’ll say yes. Of course.

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Run, Hide, Fight

A training video for my new job at an art museum begins with a string of statistics— numbers that translate to bodies.

21 killed, 19 wounded eating at a fast food restaurant 32 killed, 24 wounded while attending class 13 killed, 29 wounded while at work

People in bright cardigans and collared shirts make photocopies, wait for the elevator, answer the phone.

A white man with a buzz cut wearing all black pulls out a gun and shoots and shoots. Bodies fall, people scream.

The narrator of the video cuts in with three options: Run, Hide, Fight.

A woman cowers beneath her desk as two coworkers pull her out and make their escape. They call to a man wearing headphones who’s about to go inside; pull him to safety too.

Alone in a copy room, a woman with blond hair and glasses turns off the lights, locks the door and barricades it with the copy machine. She silences her phone, shuts her eyes tight, crouching. The shooter tries the door but continues on to an easier target.

The last group huddles in the break room— one of the women sobs, hysterical. Another comforts her while the men grab weapons: a chair, a fire extinguisher, a coffee pot. The shooter walks in and the frame freezes

with some tips: Attempt to incapacitate the shooter Act with physical aggression Improvise weapons Commit to your actions

The narrator explains that responders are highly trained. They don’t tend to the injured When they arrive On screen Men in camo fatigues rush past A woman lying dead On the bathroom floor

In Greek epics, Women tell the stories of warriors Because they are the ones who are left

But who will tell their stories? Or do they remain untold As Rukeyser said If only to keep the world from splitting open

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My mother told me her Story in pieces, as she deemed I was Old enough to understand— Though I’ve never suffered men As she has

Be careful met with eye roll, met with I know Met with impatience Met with disgust

Now met with guilt Met with I’m sorry

Trauma creates instinct, says run Says be glad you had a daughter first so She’ll never have to lock her door As you did When your brother moved home From college

Says teach her to fear Says be careful

I’m old enough to understand

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I think it’s fine to have misgivings about what you do. I remember saying to a guy I was dating in college once, “I would never date myself.” And he was like, “Well, you don’t have to!” It was very relieving. You don’t have to date yourself, you know?

Hannah Black, http://hazlitt.net/feature/i-feel-everything-shouldnt-exist-interview-hannah-black

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not only am i a shameless meme im also a shameless joanna stan

tag urself i’m divers & ys

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have one on me 4 sure

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I don't know how the mind works, but isn't there a part of it that deals specifically with reason and sense? The brainy asshole of the mind? The nerd on the dance floor in a tweed jacket, drinking sherry, constantly parsing and analyzing and judging and shaking his head, making faces? That asshole is my intellect. He's a really shitty writer, as you might imagine. I don't rely on him when I'm composing. He goes to bed and has a little wet dream about how smart everyone will think he is when the story's published. What a douche bag!

Ottessa Moshfegh, http://bombmagazine.org/article/1000261/ottessa-moshfegh

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list poem

my subjectivity

their safety

my guessing

my death

my dad’s job

my mom’s story

my dismissal

my misunderstanding

her fear

her frivolity

his power

her hurt

my guilt

his distance

our secrets

their eyes

our lineage

his withholding

my hypocrisy 

my reconciliation

my failed recognition

his innocence

his work

my scale

my desire

my lack

his refusal

the space

his shoulder

his bed

my tears

my confusion

our love

her love

our choices

our failure

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2 1/2 haiku

Kati drives us home From the bar while James tells her Right now left, left, right

Walmart parking lot And James laughs. “I just wondered If you would realize.”

Kati doesn’t smile. “I’d do anything you said.”