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Looking for the Jackalope • Laika

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Ashes to Ashes • Happy Rhodes

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Wrong number: outgoing message was the dog barking.

Dilatory

The sun went down at 7pm here two days before the equinox. What you do at sunset is often telling.

The sun slips behind the horizon like tongue over a jagged tooth. Inexorable, with no discernible effect.

But once you decide to leave, the landmarks appear on that same horizon, play hard to get to, appear suddenly outside the open window, and stumble through your mirrors into memory.

A cafe in Portland plays the same songs you heard in Brooklyn. Even the bartender looks familiar. Coincidence is a distraction.

No one will ever feel the same. Revel.

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High Places • When It Comes

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Magnetic Fields • Tiny Flying Player Pianos

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Spring Is Here, Chet Baker

If it please his majesty, it is the breathing time of day with me.

Hamlet, V, ii, 175

bodhisattva

I want the whole of Creation to get there first. I don't mind helping; in fact I want to be the last porter they see, the one who hands them down out of the Pullman and stays behind to sweep up the peanut shells while they get into carriages and drive off to the ball.

Until I don't. Then the music swells and my broom straws become crinolines, needlessly, gorgeously sweeping the marble.

Don't sit down in the middle of the woods.

Margaret Atwood

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2010/feb/20/ten-rules-for-writing-fiction-part-one

I miss that rooftop.

note to self

If the ugly part of your soul could be isolated, like a fleshy mole on the side of your neck, and somehow removed, preferably with a Schick Double Injector razor blade, you would have to be very careful about how you disposed of the resulting gram of flesh. Such a thing cannot be buried, tossed, or flushed, because the efficacy of these techniques is never certain. No, the ugly tumor of your weakness must be burned, using all the rites of transformation at your disposal. I'm not saying you actually have to wear a miter and surplice, but at minimum, a few minutes silence would confirm the seriousness of your task.

Of course, souls are not corporeal, and the character of any individual cannot be parsed. Transcendence is temporary, and so probably not worth aiming at. But if you were to attempt such an experience—the removal, say, of some hobble shackled to the ankle of your will—just please grant me this one favor: Keep your focus trained not on the experience of change itself, but on the action that it frees you to perform. If you jump into the air and double somersault over the reckless driver about to hit you with his Humvee, be sure to land gracefully and keep walking.

liquidnight

quixotience

liquidnight:

Artist/Photographer unknown

[via beginbeing]

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Hotel Palindrone, Landler 1702

Archaic Torso Of Apollo We cannot know his legendary head with eyes like ripening fruit. And yet his torso is still suffused with brilliance from inside, like a lamp, in which his gaze, now turned to low, gleams in all its power. Otherwise the curved breast could not dazzle you so, nor could a smile run through the placid hips and thighs to that dark center where procreation flared. Otherwise this stone would seem defaced beneath the translucent cascade of the shoulders and would not glisten like a wild beast's fur: would not, from all the borders of itself, burst like a star: for here there is no place that does not see you. You must change your life.

Rainer Maria Rilke, translated by Stephen Mitchell

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Ted Weems & Orchestra, "Heartaches"

"Here's what I think, Mr. Wind-Up Bird," said May Kasahara. "Everybody's born with some different thing at the core of their existence. And that thing, whatever it is, becomes like a heat source that runs each person from the inside. I have one too, of course. Like everybody else. But sometimes it gets out of hand. It swells or shrinks inside me, and it shakes me up. What I'd really like to do is find a way to communicate that feeling to another person. But I can't seem to do it. They just don't get it. Of course, the problem could be that I'm not explaining it very well, but I think it's because they're not listening very well. They pretend to be listening, but they're not, really. So I get worked up sometimes, and I do some crazy things."

Haruki Murakami, The Wind-up Bird Chronicle

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