Apologetic Shoulder Blades

Observations on a pristine day

Tue, 21 May 2013 23:37:02 -0400

Pigeons swarming over by dropped civilian crumbs, table legs, umbrellas over the eating area that don’t do their job and point in the other direction. A brief respite provided by a cloud. The sound of dropped coins on cement, slow-leaking gas, car engines, a medley of voices conversing over soda straws. Lunch in the city is nice.

My fiction professor preferred the short story I wrote the night before it was due to the story...

Wed, 15 May 2013 20:20:32 -0400

My fiction professor preferred the short story I wrote the night before it was due to the story I’d worked on for a week. I guess I over-think things.

The brain works intricately, it is adaptable. We like to think “colorfully,” though our brain’s...

Mon, 06 May 2013 10:18:49 -0400

The brain works intricately, it is adaptable. We like to think “colorfully,” though our brain’s junctures sometimes fail to present any type of meaningful idea. We also think as impulse, we engage in reckless behavior as a way to seek reward: acceptance swaddled attention, anything but a contrite reaction. Our brains allow us to negotiate—we can think of ways to get out of virtually any situation—we are highly evolved. Or at least we think we are.

"Guess how soon. Guess at the taste of locusts and wild honey. Guess at the taste of water. Guess..."

Fri, 03 May 2013 17:08:10 -0400

“Guess how soon. Guess at the taste of locusts and wild honey. Guess at the taste of water. Guess what the rivers see as the die. Guess why the babies are burning. Guess why there is silence in heaven. Guess why you were even born.”

- “Make This Simple Test” by W.S. Merwin

Photo

Tue, 30 Apr 2013 17:51:37 -0400

When I Think of Life

Tue, 30 Apr 2013 17:50:33 -0400

You are, at once,

Infinite and finite,

Old and New,

A cog in the cosmos.

When I think of life

I think joy and pain

And freedom. But I also

Think chains and boundaries.

We are tied to our selves,

Stuck on Earth,

Bound to this body.

We are stuck, so utterly,

Like moss on a rock.

Portfolio Time

Wed, 24 Apr 2013 21:37:16 -0400

I have a science writing portfolio and a fiction portfolio due tomorrow… and here I am on Tumblr. Shame.

Blow soft kisses into the wind; I know we’ll never come back here. It was last autumn when we...

Tue, 02 Apr 2013 18:13:41 -0400

Blow soft kisses into the wind; I know we’ll never come back here. It was last autumn when we officially decided, but standing now at the brink of abandonment, those passing four months seem to have sped by. I don’t want to go, but I know it is for the best. It’s something we discussed many times before. I didn’t always see it the way he did, but I suppose it’s him who needs to make all of the decisions after all.

"Nothing will get you into trouble so deep or as sad as faith."

Wed, 27 Mar 2013 13:51:30 -0400

“Nothing will get you into trouble so deep or as sad as faith.”

- Rich Bass - “Juggernaut”

Staunton, VA

Sun, 24 Mar 2013 11:21:28 -0400

I’ve never been
to such a place- where dreary hills
make wastelands shine.
Content in stasis, slow moving
like syrup suffocating
and squeezing the light from eyes
bright and new.
The day is grim, and promises snow.
To Staunton we go for The Country Wife.

Six Word Story

Thu, 21 Mar 2013 21:06:00 -0400

sisyphean-loop:

copunicus:

The beginning, the middle, the end.

the rise, the climax, the resolution.

Days to live; he came back.

My advisor asked me whether or not I had a blog. I panicked and said “no.” Not that I...

Wed, 13 Mar 2013 14:47:04 -0400

My advisor asked me whether or not I had a blog. I panicked and said “no.” Not that I update this frequently, but I guess it still counts. He recommends one post a week. Oh, and he said to learn the entire Adobe CS. And he used preparing for a hike as a metaphor for entering the job market. He’s kind of the greatest.

She seared herself with knowledge and the hope of making all that is wrong with the world somehow...

Wed, 06 Mar 2013 15:46:30 -0500

She seared herself with knowledge and the hope of making all that is wrong with the world somehow bearable. Anguish and fate copulated under boughs of whispery willows. Beam after beam of reflected headlight reminded them of home. You see, it wasn’t the end, as they say, for there is no end. The book may say “The End,” but the story goes on for as long as time is or isn’t.

Sometimes I Write Random Shit

Thu, 28 Feb 2013 16:16:53 -0500

Piling tricks of the light, synthetic noise, an analysis of ethics. Nothing is right; everything is blunder. The old world tells you nothing is fine. The sterile hold of the elite traps you in false manifestations of wit, too much time, the way we’re meant to feel. You are a rumination. You make me itch, a fever unlike the notion of summer or varsity sports. I’m made whole by your absence of mind.

"A good writer always works at the impossible."

Thu, 21 Feb 2013 23:38:02 -0500

“A good writer always works at the impossible.”

- John Steinbeck

∞

Fri, 01 Feb 2013 15:24:00 -0500

∞

And in that instant nothing in the world mattered. My heart beat beneath the book snatched to my...

Sat, 26 Jan 2013 18:10:00 -0500

And in that instant nothing in the world mattered. My heart beat beneath the book snatched to my chest, throbbing blood and pain, utterly captured by the words enclosed. Food, water, shelter, sleep, all irrelevant. The only thing worth knowing was the insane sorrow those pages provided and their dehabilitating blow to my innermost self.

We live, we die. No god or greater power is going to sweep you up to heaven. Life is just one fluid...

Mon, 17 Dec 2012 11:33:35 -0500

We live, we die. No god or greater power is going to sweep you up to heaven. Life is just one fluid movement, unconsciousness to consciousness, and back out again. Life is like waves lapping at the shore of a beach. The waves run up to the shore, stay for a brief moment, and then recede back into the expanse of the ocean. Our bodies rejoin the cosmos, and our thoughts disintegrate into the abyss.

The world is made of particles. These particles are always humming. You’re not really touching...

Thu, 13 Dec 2012 18:34:49 -0500

The world is made of particles. These particles are always humming. You’re not really touching something- the particles are repelling each other. Realizing that you’re not really who you think you are. It’s all cliché. The urge to tell someone they’re a cunt; the urge to fling open the car door on the highway; to vomit up your food even though you’re not bulimic and it tasted really good. No one ever told you that you were special, so you find solace in the natural world. You have a hide out, where you can be weird and make noises and talk to yourself. But then they came and took you away. And they put you in a hospital gown, bottled up; it gnawed away inside and itches. Dangerous territory, because you don’t really know what’s going on. You’re just a spectator. You aren’t in on the show. They prick you and tell you that it’s going to be okay, and that you’ll get better. But it’s the voice inside of your head, the bane of your compulsions. The real world is telling you that you’re sick.

Photo

Mon, 10 Dec 2012 14:36:12 -0500