why day friday halloween edition

why can't ghosts have babies?

why day friday

1) why can't i turn my hatred into indifference?

why day friday

1) why do broken hips take so long to heal?

2) why does the taste of cold coffee seem unnatural?

3) why is fall the shortest season?

4) why are tuesday/thusday teaching schedules so difficult to come by?

5) why does the hours put in on a job search seem like wasted time?

the language of fall

fall has its own language

much like memory

its colors are vibrant and yet muted

creating words and sentences that are so

fragile that the slightest breeze disturbs

their grammar

mixing and rematching words into new phrases

that are gentle and webbed

fragile yet eternal

beautifully stark and enormously full

turning so quickly to dust and creating in this charcoal coloured death

a recitative

becoming what will soon be a barren vastness

to be inscribed upon by the voice of winter in

a well metered aria filled with sharp phrases and powdered notes

that complete the frame by which fall is known and knows itself to be:

essentially the nonessential phrase lodged between two commas in the

mouth of

eternity

things that i miss...

1) my father

2) living in chicago

3) j.

4) j's nightly phone calls

5) traveling to st. louis

6) holding hands

7) the "largeness" of the world

8) possibility

9) coherency

10) a grammar of love

why day friday

why is it all or nothing?

why does coffee taste better in the morning?

why are endings always the hardest to get through?

why is _details_ magazine considered a hetero text?

why can't i specialize in one area?

why does the fall season always seem so short?

awesome picture 4 monday

joan didion + toni morrison = 2 incredible 4 words

music for a sad sunday

6 underground

Take me down, 6 underground,
The ground beneath your feet,
Laid out low, nothing to go
Nowhere a way to meet
I’ve got a head full of drought,
Down here, so far off losing out
Round here,

Over ground, watch this space,
I’m open to falling from grace

Calm me down, bring it round
Too way high off your street
I can see like nothing else
In me you’re better than I wannabe
Don’t think ‘cos I understand,
I care, don’t think ‘cos I’m talking were friends,

Over ground, watch this space,
I’m open to falling from grace

Talk me down, safe and sound
Too strung up to sleep
Wear me out, scream and shout
Swear my times never cheap
I fake my life like I’ve lived
Too much, I take whatever you’re given
Not enough,

Over ground, watch this space,
I’m open to falling from grace


*i think that this is the best cover of the sneaker pimps so far.

ability and place

the body is inscribed upon by a language of ability
that in a room confined through language the body that refuses or
cannot be inscribed with this language must be contained
how do we change the language to reflect inclusive places
how do we narrate ability in different ways
the architecture that we engage with on a daily basis
is simply a language of ability
a narrative that helps to inscribe bodies
reminding particular subjectivities of their "normal-ness"
or "other-ness"
to change this language we need to change the architecture
not just materially but also rhetorically
and not simply by laws either
this change needs to occur on the level of metaphor and poetics
we need to stop thinking and conceptualizing a certain type of
normativity as an involuntary reflex

dear monday

love,
me

sunday memory: music

my new approach

Just because you are blind, and unable to see my beauty doesn't mean it does not exist.

--Margaret Cho

why day friday

why am i still using my air conditioner in september?

why do my cats have to use the litter box right after i clean it? and it wasn't that "dirty" to begin with

why do i feel that i have made a really big mistake?

why, all of a sudden, am i using physics and grammar metaphors in my writing?

why is philip pullman such a good writer?

given all of the crap that i have been going through this year, why am i not crazy yet?

why is chicago so close and yet so far away?

mantra from james wright

suddenlyirealizethatifisteppedoutofmybodyiwouldbreakintoblossomsuddenlyirealizethatifisteppedoutofmybodyiwouldbreakintoblossomsuddenlyirealizethatifisteppedoutofmybodyiwouldbreakintoblossomsuddenlyirealizethatifisteppedoutofmybodyiwouldbreakintoblossomsuddenlyirealizethatifisteppedoutofmybodyiwouldbreakintoblossomsuddenlyirealizethatifisteppedoutofmybodyiwouldbreakintoblossomsuddenlyirealizethatifisteppedoutofmybodyiwouldbreakintoblossomsuddenlyirealizethatifisteppedoutofmybodyiwouldbreakintoblossomsuddenlyirealizethatifisteppedoutofmybodyiwouldbreakintoblossomsuddenlyirealizethatifisteppedoutofmybodyiwouldbreakintoblossomsuddenlyirealizethatifisteppedoutofmybodyiwouldbreakintoblossomsuddenlyirealizethatifisteppedoutofmybodyiwouldbreakintoblossomsuddenlyirealizethatifisteppedoutofmybodyiwouldbreakintoblossomsuddenlyirealizethatifisteppedoutofmybodyiwouldbreakintoblossomsuddenlyirealizethatifisteppedoutofmybodyiwouldbreakintoblossomsuddenlyirealizethatifisteppedoutofmybodyiwouldbreakintoblossomsuddenlyirealizethatifisteppedoutofmybodyiwouldbreakintoblossomsuddenlyirealizethatifisteppedoutofmybodyiwouldbreakintoblossomsuddenlyirealizethatifisteppedoutofmybodyiwouldbreakintoblossom

poem and image for the week...probably a re-post but i don't care

Not Waving but Drowning
by Stevie Smith


Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.





From Collected Poems of Stevie Smith by Stevie Smith, published by New Directions Publishing Corp. Copyright © 1972 by Stevie Smith.

why day friday

why do i worry about small stuff and not really the big stuff?

why do some drivers think that going slower means "safer"?

why are friendships harder to maintain the older you get?

why are some people easy to forget?

why am i easy to forget?

why isn't it worth it?

why is existentialism always such a buzz kill?

driving towards death

i have never been more acutely aware of freud’s concept of the death drive as i am now. with the dissertation writing and the job search questing….i am now beginning to see that the various exercises and tasks that i must perform as neither ultimately getting a large document written to completion nor is securing a job for the future. rather all of this “activity” is nothing more that the accumulation of highly stylized rhetorical acts in order to stop the flow of life. when i write “stop the flow of life” i am not meaning it in a suicidal way (although it can and does mean just that). I am really looking at this in a very metaphorical way. the flow of life that articulates its movement onto and through moments of stress is what i am trying to address here. life is flowing around me like a fast moving river. it is pushing me to goddess knows where…perhaps over a cliff or maybe to a lagoon. but my overall desire is to get the flowing to stop…to quiet down…to become inert and static. i want to be able to find a consistent rhythm like a gently pounding heartbeat that harmonizes itself with calm, graceful breathing. writing a dissertation and finding a job will not accomplish this. in fact, both just lead to more “unfinished” business….more frantic flowing down a river. sometimes i wonder that if i swim with the current i will find the peace and inertia that i need oscillating between within the almost imperceptible interstices of this rapid flow of water.

daemons

"why" day friday saturday...

why am i posting why day friday on saturday?

why do raspberry mochas taste so good?

why do people seem more insane the older i get?

why do i feel liberated when i probably should feel sad?

why do i feel sad when i probably should feel liberated?

why is life so paradoxical?

rooms

painting by nick patten (nickpatten.com)

Sometimes I have the feeling that we're in one room with two opposite doors and each of us holds the handle of one door, one of us flicks an eyelash and the other is already behind his door, and now the first one has but to utter a word and immediately the second one has closed his door behind him and can no longer be seen. He's sure to open the door again, for it's a room which perhaps one cannot leave. If only the first one were not precisely like the second, if he were calm, if he would only pretend not to look at the other, if he would slowly set the room in order as though it was a room like any other; but instead he does exactly the same as the other at his door, sometimes even both are behind the doors and the beautiful room is empty.

--Franz Kafka
in a letter to Milena Jesenska