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| today for you bart starr |
Sunday, September 28, 2014
solitary biennial road trip day two - even with what felt like the second cousin to a maj sinus infection, i felt excellent / fell in love with a wild colt off the side of the road
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| i always feel so metal at the canyon. prob cause the canyon is so metal? or because i'm the only scruffy american amongst so many fancy pants europeans and asians? |
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| love my jeep |
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| coming back for you babbitt ranch colt |
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| navajo graffiti - sacred site not for sale - fight like a woman - fiercely |
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| totally pulled in by the sedona vortex |
biennial canyon road trip day une
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| let the cowboys ride! |
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| jeep family |
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| all we need indeed is clouds on canyons |
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| happy place - navajo rez |
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| visibility 10+ miles easy - storms were off in the distance |
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| we them ole boys raised on shotguns |
Wednesday, September 24, 2014
Sunday, September 21, 2014
nola bequeathed me a love of walker percy
Percy was fond of calling serious writers, including himself, ex-
suicides. He maintained that the writer does not create ex
nihilo, but that “he starts with himself as nothing and makes
something of the nothing with things at hand . . . a novelist these
days has to be an ex-suicide.” The writer as ex-suicide becomes a
“nought” before the challenge of the blank page, which opens him
to the possibilities of finding an authentic “self” by discovering a
true voice and naming reality. For Kierkegaard, one form of
despairing “suicide” is silence before reality, which he termed
“shut-up-ness.” Thus, Percy saw writing as a way to overcome
despair by emptying the egoistic self in order to create a bond of
communion with the reader. For author and reader, literature that
honestly names the truth of being can reverse—albeit temporarily
—the death-in-life of alienation and despair. Writer and reader
become “ex-suicides” in humility before the truth.
suicides. He maintained that the writer does not create ex
nihilo, but that “he starts with himself as nothing and makes
something of the nothing with things at hand . . . a novelist these
days has to be an ex-suicide.” The writer as ex-suicide becomes a
“nought” before the challenge of the blank page, which opens him
to the possibilities of finding an authentic “self” by discovering a
true voice and naming reality. For Kierkegaard, one form of
despairing “suicide” is silence before reality, which he termed
“shut-up-ness.” Thus, Percy saw writing as a way to overcome
despair by emptying the egoistic self in order to create a bond of
communion with the reader. For author and reader, literature that
honestly names the truth of being can reverse—albeit temporarily
—the death-in-life of alienation and despair. Writer and reader
become “ex-suicides” in humility before the truth.
“Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this too, was a gift.”
― Mary Oliver
Saturday, September 20, 2014
Wednesday, September 17, 2014
Monday, September 15, 2014
also: nfl you make me sick.
vikings organization: you make me sick.
ray rice and roger goodell: you make me sick.
message sent to kids: you can beat your lady and kids so long as you are performing: makes me sick.
luckily, the PACK are a stand-up organization. if not, nfl you would have lost one true fan.
ray rice and roger goodell: you make me sick.
message sent to kids: you can beat your lady and kids so long as you are performing: makes me sick.
luckily, the PACK are a stand-up organization. if not, nfl you would have lost one true fan.
Sunday, September 14, 2014
Friday, September 12, 2014
Wednesday, September 10, 2014
Tuesday, September 9, 2014
Monday, September 8, 2014
we like erica wright in verse daily
[[ verse daily ]]
Spontaneous Human Combustion
You can't mask the scent of sulfur
once it sets in the upholstery.
once it sets in the upholstery.
That's as far as we've come in understanding.
Someone was here, and now he's not.
Someone was here, and now he's not.
Sometimes your insides want to become
your outsides, and you have to tell them "No."
your outsides, and you have to tell them "No."
I remember chaud, but have forgotten
the French for cold, the sensation
the French for cold, the sensation
of needing to burrow, of nosing dirt aside
to bury myself in the basement's crawlspace.
to bury myself in the basement's crawlspace.
There's a sound like swing-set chains
unwinding. Not like the time I snipped
unwinding. Not like the time I snipped
my ring finger while maneuvering scissors.
Blood pooled, and there was no way
Blood pooled, and there was no way
to test for tetanus. The great chasm of years
since inoculation weighed on me. Lockjaw:
since inoculation weighed on me. Lockjaw:
as if a key went missing along with the ability
to tell someone, "Look out!
The sky hasn't looked friendly for days."
I do not like to argue, even with people I love,
I do not like to argue, even with people I love,
but there's only accident out there in the flatlands,
bright as any phenomena, cruel as any store-bought pyre.
bright as any phenomena, cruel as any store-bought pyre.
Sunday, September 7, 2014
Saturday, September 6, 2014
things during the first two days of my four day weekend - god love teaching only on tues/thurs
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| frida k by the door - tucson stylin |
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| first game sucked - but here i look just redneck enough in papa coley's hat and my old faithful packers tee |
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| backyard relaxing - things are coming along - i got the & from homegoods and spray-painted it yellow. my mama taught me the love of spray-paint and yes home goods. fun fun. |
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| joe and i have a full on lavender bush in our backyard |
Friday, September 5, 2014
Wednesday, September 3, 2014
Monday, September 1, 2014
Laura Kochman in Coldfront's "Poets off Poetry, Song of the Week"
“Cello Concerto in E Minor Op. 85 – Adagio – Moderato” by Edward Elgar
Performed by Jacqueline Du Pre with the London Symphony Orchestra
I’m not really a fan of classical music. I grew up with it blasting through the house, my sister practicing violin in the next room while I was trying to sleep. It’s just not really my thing.
But I can’t help but keep this / the brown and white box of it / when the octaves rise I can see my mother crying and I cry. I have invented the story wherein she practices cello while pregnant and I listen on repeat / or maybe I have not invented it. I hang placental in the memory of these cassette tapes.
She died too young / she was too young / she never did die / my mother’s hand is shaking up and down the cello’s spine. At the center of the stage the body is shaking.
-Laura Kochman
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Laura Kochman, originally from New Jersey, currently lives, writes, and feeds her cat in Philadelphia. She is an assistant editor for Coconut Magazine, and her work is most recently found or forthcoming in Parcel, Nashville Review, Sundog Lit, Ghost Proposal, and others. Her chapbook, Future Skirt, was released in the fall of 2013 from dancing girl press.
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