When it was too late for him to provide
his own share in my happy childhood, my
father stopped clowning out stories & tried
for a whole day to see me—a good try
by both of us. Back we went to the seaside
of old summers, we two, we talked, we swam,
sleek with cocoa butter that caught the sand—
a glitter like chain mail guarding who I am
from his used blue gaze that stared to understand.
Closed, stuck closed, I watched us—far me far him—
go small, smaller, further, father, joy dim
in beach light. Our last chance, last perfect day.
We laughed. We ate four dozen hard-shell clams.
We swallowed what I would not let us say.
SOPRANOS UPDATE: CHRISTOPHER AND ADRIANA BRING ME GREAT SADNESS. DON’T TELL ME WHAT HAPPENS TO THEM. I’M ALREADY SURE IT’S TERRIBLE.
Hey, universe? At what age are you granted the power to wear lipstick without smearing it across your mug? Yeah, I can hold.
My favorite thing about this portrait of John Keats is that he was obviously just hanging out in his study and not outside by the sea with some deer conveniently frolicking in the background. And dude was 5’1”, 5’2” at best, so you know he shouted “PAINT ME TALL. ARE YOU PAINTING ME TALL? I CAN TELL THAT YOU’RE NOT”. What do you think he’s thinking about? Probably birds, right? And how sad he is? Probably. Definitely
Today I took a lit bro to a lecture with me, apparently disrupting his plans to go to Buffalo Wild Wings, and when I snuck a look at his notepad after fifteen or so minutes, he had written the following words in a descending diagonal line across the page:
Anyway, now he’s my boyfriend and we’re probably getting married.
i tried to come up with a term for this kind of feminism, like cute armpit hair patriarchy period blood glitter pizza denim jacket patches Etsy feminism. the best i could do was liz lemonism. while this kind of thing can be good/empowering in small doses, and i sometimes fuck with it, i’ve seen too many people (mostly tumblrish white women) who think that’s all it’s about, like feminism is just a fun sleepover with your friends. i very much side eye this notion
Admittedly, the area possesses a dowdiness that I personally have always found comforting, but to think of the Midwest as a whole as anything other than beautiful is to ignore the extraordinary power of the land. The lushness of the grass and trees in August, the roll of the hills (far less of the Midwest is flat than outsiders seem to imagine), the rich smell of soil, the evening sunlight over a field of wheat, or the crickets chirping at dusk on a residential street: All of it, it has always made me feel at peace. There is room to breathe, there is a realness of place. The seasons are extreme, but they pass and return, pass and return, and the world seems far steadier than it does from the vantage point of a coastal city.
Certainly picturesque towns can be found in New England or California or the Pacific Northwest, but I can’t shake the sense that they’re too picturesque. On the East Coast, especially, these places seem to me aggressively quaint, unbecomingly smug, and even xenophobic, downright paranoid in their wariness of those who might somehow infringe upon the local charm. I suspect this wariness is tied to the high cost of real estate, the fear that there might not be enough space or money and what there is of both must be clung to and defended. The West Coast, I think, has a similar self-regard—all that talk of proximity to the ocean and the mountains—and a beauty that I can’t help seeing as show-offy. But the Midwest: It is quietly lovely, not preening with the need to have its attributes remarked on. It is the place I am calmest and most myself.
Rush hour in Reykjavík.
There is no one.
Yesterday I was in Chicago and now I am not, but yesterday I watched Grease zero times and today I have watched it nearly twice, so we’re really all winners.