Writer, 24, taking classes and distracting herself. Likes white wine best, has a morbid streak and a fondness for Stephen Fry. Teaches freshman composition by way of current vocation. Plays pretend, reads indiscriminately, and criticizes voraciously.
Nov 12
Nov 10
The Espresso Book Machine is a fully integrated patented book making machine which can automatically print, bind and trim on demand at point of sale perfect bound library quality paperback books with 4-color cover indistinguishable from their factory made versions.
My school library is getting one. I’m rather quite smitten, actually. I think I want one in my own living room. Anybody got $125,000 they could donate for the project?
Oct 26
Oct 15
I would keep these in a curio case in my living room, in a place where the gears could trap the light.
Oct 13
This reminded me of a story I wrote this summer; I toyed with the idea of shaping it around photographs but couldn’t find anything I liked (woodcuts for mermaids would have worked, but eventually I just left it as text). This is the first paragraph.
Here, in this place, action never results in change. The guards may scatter lights over the water caps, the breaking waves, and they may drag their nets and divers in search of her. She may even one day be caught as one of their fish, her eyes already decomposed to nothing. Or she might wash up by the staggered houses, propped up on their slender legs of hurricane support. It doesn’t matter. Here. She is present, fully present, as she will never be anywhere else. Her arm bobs forward and touches her chest in a brief salute. Here she is always drowning.
Weeki Wachee Spring, Florida
Photography by Toni Frissell, first published in Harper’s Bazaar
via enjaminf, matthewb, neven mrgan
Sep 30
Sometimes I feel like I am bending over backwards, straining every muscle in my body, just to be somebody’s table. (I never wanted to be a table in the first place, but now I can’t seem to stand up.)
photo via
At first I’m fascinated by the capacity of the body to do this, to enter a simultaneous state of flux and suspension, and then I wonder about the strain on her tendons and the look of utter concern on the man’s face. The telephone propped on her ribcage is just insult.
Sep 15
This last episode of Mad Men was dreamlike and horrifying, slow twilight sleep and infantilization. I don’t know how anybody gave birth in the 60’s. I’m actually a little surprised the human race is still around.
Sep 14
“ In 1989, Palo Alto received a gift of a large, whimsical wooden sculpture called Foreign Friends (Fjärran Vänner)—of a man, woman, dog and bird sitting on a park bench—from Linköping. The sculpture was praised by some, called “grotesque” by others, and became a lightning rod for vandals. It was covered with a large addressed postcard marked “Return to Sender.” A former Stanford University mathematics professor was arrested for attempting to light it on fire. It was doused with paint.[citation needed] When the original heads were decapitated on Halloween, 1993, the statue became a shrine—flowers bouquets and cards were placed upon it. Following an anonymous donation, the heads were restored. Within weeks, the restored heads were decapitated again, this time disappearing. The heads were eventually replaced with new ones, which generated even more distaste, as many deemed the new heads even less attractive ] A few months later, the man’s arm was chopped off, the woman’s lap was vandalized, the bird was stolen, and the replacements heads were decapitated and stolen. The sculpture was removed from its location on Embarcadero Road and Waverley Avenue in 1995, dismantled, and placed in storage until it was destroyed in 2000. Ironically, the statue was designed not as a lasting work of art, but as something to be climbed on with a lifespan of 10 to 25 years
— From Palo Alto on Wikipedia.
Sep 07
I love what people do with paper.
Jul 29
Electric Storm.
Five of us huddled in the bathtub to watch the lightening storm. The clouds are enormous, constantly lit by flashes. The effect is spooky, a flashlight held underneath the chin. Bolts hit the ground constantly, but the pace is erratic, and the desert ground holds the light only for a few seconds. We unplug the computers, find the flashlights, listen the wind thud outside. The power still isn’t out, the Internet still works, and the rain trembles on the glass. Everyone gathers around my computer when I open it. I eat marshmallows, the junior-sized pastel kind. The weather says it’s only partly cloudy. This is a stray thunderstorm.
I play Tori Amos in the background. And I think I could leave your world/If she was the better girl/So when we died/I tried to bribe the undertaker.
We can hear thunder now. The pool glows outside, radiant in light and pale water. I lie on the bed and look through the window up into the courtyard. The sky alights with the same rhythm as fireworks.
The song dies abruptly, before I expect it to, and for a few moments, nothing else comes on.
