a text message to read when you’re crying and alone and suddenly 20 years old
"Do sob your heart out whenever you can and pull yourself together when you can’t. I wish I could be there to offer you wine and a hug at least. Have fun with your friends whenever you can and devise as many mean jokes about him, with them, as possible. I know it doesn’t help to say he’s not worth crying over because you probably already know it and anyway that’s probably not really why you’re crying. Be patient and wait to give your love to someone who deserves it. Learn to do something useful and self satisfying while you wait. Or something escapist. Either/or — anything that brings you to another place."
Some discouragement, some faintness of heart at the new real future which replaces the imaginary, is not unusual, and we do not expect people to be deeply moved by what is not unusual. That element of tragedy which lies in the very fact of frequency, has not yet wrought itself into the coarse emotion of mankind; and perhaps our frames could hardly bear much of it. If we had a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow and the squirrel’s heart beat, and we should die of that roar which lies on the other side of silence. As it is, the quickest of us walk about well wadded with stupidity.
George Eliot, Middlemarch
dreams — wet
lyrics to repeat as you walk to class: “say it enough times && god will set you free.”
i feel sad
all the time. i remember telling hall (last semester) how it feels. like you’re looking for keys or a wallet in a room that’s too small. you’ve retraced your steps — you were holding your backpack, you came into the room, you sat down for a minute. and now, all of sudden, quite mysteriously, you can’t find your wallet. you’re late for class or a meeting and you stand by your bed in the room that’s too small. the keys are here, there, somewhere, beneath a sheet or under a shoe. you know this. and still you can’t breathe.
happiness too is not lost but misplaced. i know this. and still i can’t breathe.
coffee — sylvan esso
wild winter / warm coffee / mom’s gone / do you love me
Oedipa, perverse, had stood in front of the painting and cried. No one had noticed; she wore dark green bubble shades. For a moment she’d wondered if the seal around her sockets were tight enough to allow the tears simply to go on and fill up the entire lens space and never dry. She could carry the sadness of the moment with her that way forever, see the world refracted through those tears, those specific tears, as if indices as yet unfound varied in important ways from cry to cry.
Thomas Pynchon, The Crying of Lot 49
I think of my father, imagine him long ago at night casually parting my mother’s legs with the mechanical indifference of somebody opening a cupboard. And I say to myself: I will leave every cold man, every man for whom music is some private physics and love some unsteppable dance. I will try to make them regret. To make them sad.
Lorrie Moore, “What is Seized” (via hubiese)
things i should have said to a boy
i like it when you put your tongue in my mouth and your hand down my pants but unfortunately you don’t share my overwhelming existential dread and unfortunately you don’t believe in suffering as an esthetic statement so we should probably stop making out and never make out again thanks
A heavy succulence in the woods after the smashing rains. Grass root and flower root and the leathery-smelling stream taking a sensual hold on the mind. The water smoking after the rain and turbulent, here and there. Humid and still in the pools. Water dropping off the pines. A trout rising in the deep pool under the maple. Below the surface of the brook a still world. Avernus of round stones. All the dead men in Parson’s pond and the slender margin between the dry world and the watery. The chill through my waders and hug of the water. Nereids I think of, and the hairy river gods. There is a mingling here, at daybreak — the air heady with laurel and water on which the heart-shaped dogwood petals sail — of sweetness and lewdness too. Maidens and satyrs both. At the crossing below Harcourts, the little bridge made of maple saplings is sprouting leaves. Against the bridge a thick white cuff of scum. At my back the brook speaks with the tongues of “Parthians, and Medes, and Elamites, and the dwellers of Mesopotamia, and in Judea, and Cappadocia, in Pontus, and Asia, Phrygia, and Pamphylia, in Egypt, and in the parts of Libya about Cyrene, and strangers of Rome, Jews and proselytes, Cretes and Arabians”; we do hear the brook speak in all these tongues. And thinking of fleshly things: of that which can illuminate and darken the conscience; of that which tempts us to peer under window shades and all other kinds of lewd follies; and that also which furnished us with tenderness and patience. This gentle larceny of feathers we commit. Then the light of the sun fell into the valley; humid and golden. And then upstream the trout strikes with the noise of breaking dishes: a clatter, and we have him. The rod bends, and through the clear water we see him sound, this way and that, silver and rose, our sunken treasure.
from John Cheever’s journals