PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
i don't do bad sauce passes
JBB: An Artblog!
Claire Keane
Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
Game of Thrones Daily
styofa doing anything
No title available
$LAYYYTER
★
祝日 / Permanent Vacation
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
noise dept.
almost home
Three Goblin Art
trying on a metaphor
todays bird
dirt enthusiast
🪼
cherry valley forever
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@amandabullock
You mentioned Sylvia Plath, and she happens to be a fucking genius. It's really hard not to be depressed, as a woman. It's hard not to be completely disappointed in the world and the way your intellect is received or ignored just because you have a vagina.
Bookforum talks with Ottessa Moshfegh - bookforum.com / interviews
Read all about Brave New Wordstock | Arts | Portland Mercury
To the Mouse I Murdered This Morning
I saw you. In the dim light after dinner you walked across the kitchen floor, brazen, looking for crumbs. “Hey,” I said from the couch, insulted that you could wander by so casually. I am so much bigger than you, after all, don’t you know? And I have gotten so tired of finding shits on the stovetop in the mornings, like grains of black rice, evidence of your existence, your nightly visits to nibble and lick. Enough, enough. Gray invader, find another place. Please. I said “Hey,” and you scurried off behind the stove. That’s where you run off to, you and your brothers and sisters who have made a home in this home. And so I put out a trap, those awful sticky traps, in the narrow space between the wall and the stove and I thought: I will get you. And I did, I did. I got you. I knew I would and I did. In the morning, there you were, curled like a comma around the small cloud of marshmallow that was meant to tempt (I ate all the peanut butter). And your jaw was stuck and all of your tiny feet and your soft grey belly and you wriggled, your ribs twitched back and forth. Oh god, oh no. Please, small friend, please die of a heart attack, please. I wished that on you. Your black eyes shined. And I left you there, I left you there on the stick in the small dark space between the wall and the stove. And when I returned, I hoped you had died of a heart attack, but you squeaked instead when I put down a bag of groceries and I crouched down and looked at you, I looked and looked, and your black eyes shined and your ribs twitched and oh god oh no, this is no way for a creature to be and I considered my options. Suffocation: a plastic bag. Drowning: into the toilet. Discarding: out in the trash bins for the raccoons to do what they will with you. The word humane kept rushing across my mind. Humane, humane. I am a human and you are a mouse and I am bigger than you and you shit on the stove but your black eyes shine and I wish you could talk and I wish you lived in my pocket as a friend, you small soft animal with a beating heart and a brain that knows fear. I put you in a ziplock bag and sealed it. I’m sorry. I put that bag inside two plastic grocery bags. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I pulled the cast iron pan from the low shelf, the biggest one, the one that’s so heavy I have to hold with both hands. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry. Who am I? What am I doing? Monster, brutal huge murdering monster. I held the pan up to my chest. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry. I dropped it on you. It was so loud. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry. To your brothers and sisters, come shit on the stove if you want because I don’t know who I am and I won’t murder anymore.
And this heavy didacticism is combined with so much whimsy-pimsy. The lessons have no anchor. The magical realism casts everything from its moorings. Ghosts float into the narrative. Everything comes lacquered in silliness. Moss, we are told at one point, 'has wordlessly covered the rocks' – presumably in contrast to chattier moss. Nothing the characters do carries any load of consequence, since mackerel can start landing on the characters’ heads and turn everything around.
The mystery of Haruki Murakami's whimsy | Books | The Guardian
I also just can’t with Murakami and therefore highly enjoyed this piece.
I think it’s probably terribly important to listen. It’s terribly important to try to become more knowledgeable. It’s important to not expect that acquiring of that knowledge — in this case of the force of racism in American history — to be a pleasant experience or to proceed along just lines. They certainly don’t proceed that way for black people. It’s going to be painful.
Ta-Nehisi Coates, The Charge to Be Fair: Ta-Nehisi Coates and Roxane Gay in Conversation — The Barnes & Noble Review
Cara Nicoletti, How to Throw a Book Themed Dinner Party
When the New Horizons craft passes Pluto as expected July 14, we will have explored the known worlds.
Dennis Overbye on the exploration of Pluto:
But the inventory of major planets — whether you count Pluto as one of those or not — is about to be done. None of us alive today will see a new planet up close for the first time again. In some sense, this is, as Alan Stern, the leader of the New Horizons mission, says, “the last picture show.”
It’s hard to write these words and know what they might feel like 50 years from now. I never dreamed, when Apollo astronauts left the moon in 1972, that there might come a day when there was nobody still alive who had been to the moon. But now it seems that could come to pass. How heartbreaking is that?
You could say that we have reached the sea, the very icy and black sea between us and the stars. Whether we will ever cross that sea nobody can say.
What a sad, but beautiful way to put it.
So heavy, and so poetic. -Ariel
Last night, deep into Moby Dick, page 667 of my edition, I was surprised when Ishmael announces, out of nowhere really, that not very long before the Pequod sailed from Nantucket, Ahab was found lying in the street, unconscious. Apparently, the incident occurred late at night. Where was he coming from? Where was he going? Ishmael doesn’t seem to know. All he tells us that while he was walking on the cobblestones Ahab’s ivory leg gave out from under him and buckled. He falls and his shattered leg stabs him in the groin. It must have hurt like hell. You wonder why the man became so maniacal? This is the single glimpse in the entire novel of Ahab on land.
The Lonely Voice #30: Brief Early Morning Thoughts On Ahab by Peter Orner. (via therumpus)
“A century and a half elapsed before anyone had any inkling that the Pacific Northwest was not a quiet place but a place in a long period of quiet. It took another fifty years to uncover and interpret the region’s seismic history. Geology, as even geologists will tell you, is not normally the sexiest of disciplines; it hunkers down with earthly stuff while the glory accrues to the human and the cosmic—to genetics, neuroscience, physics. But, sooner or later, every field has its field day, and the discovery of the Cascadia subduction zone stands as one of the greatest scientific detective stories of our time.”
—Kathryn Schulz, The Earthquake That Will Devastate Seattle - The New Yorker
Though the white liberal imagination likes to feel temporarily bad about black suffering, there really is no mode of empathy that can replicate the daily strain of knowing that as a black person you can be killed for simply being black: no hands in your pockets, no playing music, no sudden movements, no driving your car, no walking at night, no walking in the day, no turning onto this street, no entering this building, no standing your ground, no standing here, no standing there, no talking back, no playing with toy guns, no living while black.
Claudia Rankine, ‘The Condition of Black Life Is One of Mourning’ - The New York Times
My name is Zadie Smith, and I am a 38-year-old pathological reader. I would like to say in my defense that I don’t really get the appeal of YOLO. I live many times over. Hypothetical, subterranean lives that run beneath the relative tedium of my own and have the power to occasionally penetrate or even derail it. I find it hard to name the one book that was so damn delightful it changed my life. The truth is, they have all changed my life, every single one of them—even the ones I hated. Books are my version of ‘experiences.’ I’m made of them.
“What It Means to Be Addicted to Reading,” Zadie Smith (via authorstalker)
VIP, it drives me nuts when people do this wrong (via cheeseportions.gif (870×495))
I’ll be good and bad, I’ll be right and wrong. I’ll be just like everyone else.
Saint Mazie, Jami Attenberg (via snark-notes)
Why is everyone going to Vegas? Why do New Hampshire residents spend the summer in Charlotte? Arkansas and New York? This is wacky. (via - KAYAK Travel Hacker - Blog)
Drunk Crustacean Calendar
The syntax and wordplay will be immediately recognizable to readers of McBride’s debut. Posturing banter and self-doubt combine in a cocktail of emotional febrility (“He is laughing and I almost am over my chasing brain”), before the pair head off in pursuit of crispy duck in Soho, the man striding ahead of her (“I’m lagging his gait”). Later, when she gets back to his place, guards, and clothes, are swiftly dropped, “modesty flying everywhere”.
Excerpt from Eimear McBride’s forthcoming second novel at The TLS blog: A tale of two McBrides
I want to read this right now I don’t want to wait life is unfair
Rebecca Dinerstein’s Ode to Norwegian Brown Cheese
Illustration by Boyoun Kim
