the-final-sentence:

Final sentences:

"[Darling, do you remember
the man you married?] Touch me,
remind me who I am.”

from “Touch Me

"[Our lives are spinning out
from world to world;
the shapes of things
are shifting in the wind.]
What do we know
beyond the rapture and the dread?”

from “The Abduction

(via cal2neb)

Dax is at the age where his capacity for imaginative play has exploded. He’s pushed all the cushions off the couch (when he did this I had to run grab the vacuum bc gross) and has made himself a fort and is playing all kinds of Dax-madeup games. So cute are two-year-olds.

Feeling p good about dinner: roast chicken, black-eyed peas, collards, roasted squash and onions. I’ve been trying to make collard greens unsuccessfully for a while now. The answer is to salt liberally and not be too intimidated to use weird meat cuts (ham hocks basically). I also ate a stellar lunch of tuna in olive oil with white beans, red onion, grape tomatoes, and capers. So I’m riding that food high tonight.

Feeling p good about dinner: roast chicken, black-eyed peas, collards, roasted squash and onions. I’ve been trying to make collard greens unsuccessfully for a while now. The answer is to salt liberally and not be too intimidated to use weird meat cuts (ham hocks basically). I also ate a stellar lunch of tuna in olive oil with white beans, red onion, grape tomatoes, and capers. So I’m riding that food high tonight.

fergujc:

When I think of home, I think of Lake Martin.
#lakelife #lakemartin #home

Agreed. Now that it’s just my grandmother, she will eventually sell the home she and my grandfather built when they retired over 20 years ago and moved to the lake in my hometown. Papa dragged me through miles of lake water as I was learning to ski. I helped Ma snap green beans and pick tomatoes from her garden. There were always fresh cookies or chewy bread in a tupperware to eat. I spent all my summers running around their yard, swimming behind their house, walking the path to the lake and back so many times it adds up to miles and miles. So many birthday parties, cookouts, perfect sunsets, firefly twilights, clouds of gnats that buzzed thickly in the evening air. So many peaches eaten in so many bathing suits. Countless hot dogs, bowls of brunswick stew, slices of homemade bread and jars of watermelon rind pickles. Every pontoon boat ride, each snake gliding across the glossy surface of the lake. The feeling of a damp towel draped over my shoulders, calves burning from waterskiing, being full and also spent.

It’s hard to move beyond a good thing. As much as I miss my Papa, I miss also the security of knowing how good I had it. And the thing is, now I also live on the water with my husband and baby boy. I recreated all the good things I loved as child, but it’s not enough. It never will be. Love is greedy, it grasps indecently. There is always more of it to hoard.

fergujc:

When I think of home, I think of Lake Martin.
#lakelife #lakemartin #home

Agreed. Now that it’s just my grandmother, she will eventually sell the home she and my grandfather built when they retired over 20 years ago and moved to the lake in my hometown. Papa dragged me through miles of lake water as I was learning to ski. I helped Ma snap green beans and pick tomatoes from her garden. There were always fresh cookies or chewy bread in a tupperware to eat. I spent all my summers running around their yard, swimming behind their house, walking the path to the lake and back so many times it adds up to miles and miles. So many birthday parties, cookouts, perfect sunsets, firefly twilights, clouds of gnats that buzzed thickly in the evening air. So many peaches eaten in so many bathing suits. Countless hot dogs, bowls of brunswick stew, slices of homemade bread and jars of watermelon rind pickles. Every pontoon boat ride, each snake gliding across the glossy surface of the lake. The feeling of a damp towel draped over my shoulders, calves burning from waterskiing, being full and also spent.

It’s hard to move beyond a good thing. As much as I miss my Papa, I miss also the security of knowing how good I had it. And the thing is, now I also live on the water with my husband and baby boy. I recreated all the good things I loved as child, but it’s not enough. It never will be. Love is greedy, it grasps indecently. There is always more of it to hoard.

My paternal grandfather, my Papa, died relatively unexpectedly last Tuesday. His funeral was this weekend. I have not had words to express how I’m feeling about this to almost anyone and certainly not to the internet. I understand that he had a full and happy life. I understand that he was 85. I understand that all our grandparents die and then our parents our friends our spouses, eventually our children. I understand all this, but I have not had the words to arrange in paragraphs to tell people that I am sad or okay or numb.

He and my grandmother certainly made my childhood a charmed one.

It feels weird to put this on the internet, I’m not going to lie, but it feels weirder not to acknowledge his death at all.

Tomato-rich is probably the best kind of rich to be, honestly.

Tomato-rich is probably the best kind of rich to be, honestly.

Poets don’t drive. Never trust a poet who can drive. Never trust a poet at the wheel. If he can drive, distrust the poems.

Martin Amis, from The Information (via litafficionado

What a wonderful excuse for being an awful driver.

(via kabillieu)

i love driving, and i’m really good at it.

i’m like these guys, basically:

the main reason i’m good at driving is that ron howard’s voice provides me with driving directions, gps-style.

although, i’m also pretty good at creating mental maps of towns and using my mental map to envision and realize shortcuts, so basically, i’m also ellen page in inception:

or tank from the matrix:

but mostly it’s like this:

in conclusion, that is why i am a good driver.

(via dnlbly)

I am a very earnest person, to a fault really, so my first response is to always play things straight. I have a sense of humor, I just don’t always think to use it. Anyway, Dan’s response is the greatest.

(via dnlbly)

unforgettabledetritus:


A few years ago, after reading in a book that people who feel a strong sense of community have been proven to lead longer and happier lives, Bamford started working to overcome her natural shyness and fear of interaction by saying hello to her neighbors in Eagle Rock, a diverse and partly gentrified area on the northeastern edge of Los Angeles. She bought a park bench and had it installed on the median strip in front of her house. She then spray-stenciled the words “Have a Seat!” on the sidewalk in front of it. To her delight, the bench is often occupied. “It’s like a bird feeder for humans,” she says.

—The Weird, Scary, and Ingenious Brain of Maria Bamford

I cannot stress enough what a great profile this is. Just do the work, indeed.

unforgettabledetritus:

A few years ago, after reading in a book that people who feel a strong sense of community have been proven to lead longer and happier lives, Bamford started working to overcome her natural shyness and fear of interaction by saying hello to her neighbors in Eagle Rock, a diverse and partly gentrified area on the northeastern edge of Los Angeles. She bought a park bench and had it installed on the median strip in front of her house. She then spray-stenciled the words “Have a Seat!” on the sidewalk in front of it. To her delight, the bench is often occupied. “It’s like a bird feeder for humans,” she says.

The Weird, Scary, and Ingenious Brain of Maria Bamford

I cannot stress enough what a great profile this is. Just do the work, indeed.

Poets don’t drive. Never trust a poet who can drive. Never trust a poet at the wheel. If he can drive, distrust the poems.

Martin Amis, from The Information (via litafficionado

What a wonderful excuse for being an awful driver.

(via nogreatillusion)

Speaking of feeeelings, I just ordered this album on vinyl. I’d like to have more of the Saddle Creek music I listened to from 2006-2010 or so on records because the shows I went to were just so darn fun. Omaha was pretty much just dark bars and too much vodka and talking shit with my friends, but that was a really good time. This post is my equivalent of reminiscing about the old college days…except I was well into my 20’s and not in college anymore (ok I was in grad school).

(Source: Spotify)

Not Mary Tyler Moore

I used to write about my neuroses on tumblr a lot more than I do now, which is almost never. It’s not that I’m less neurotic. Unfortunately that has not changed. It’s more that I think I’ve exhausted this space’s capacity for my complaints. No1curr and all that. Anyway, today I mailed some stuff and made some phone calls—ordinary tasks that seemed insurmountable before I did them because for some reason beyond my comprehension basic communication is hard for me. I’m adding points to the “you are a barely functional adult who is lukewarmly considerate some of the time” column and calling it good. I guess this is what it looks like to be 32 and just barely making it.

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