May 2013
16 posts
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love poems only when you need them
brightlightsloudnoises:
i want to write something for you about the glory of love,
something about slow dances and birth control, about the sweat that never washes out of sheets
about the mornings and the late night marathon drives to cities that look close on the map but are hours away from the two mattresses stacked in the corner of the room
i want to get it all into a...
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Watchexplore-blog:
Some magnificent motion graphics in this lovely short portrait of typography powerhouse Jonathan Hoefler and Tobias Frere-Jones, winners of the 2013 AIGA medal, by Brooklyn-based studio dress code.
Also see Hoefler and Frere-Jones in this short and sweet PBS micro-documentary on typography, then pair with 10 essential books on typography.
2:25 – 2:55 is so beautiful
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yeahwriters:
“The greatest thing by far is to have a command of metaphor. This alone cannot be imparted by another; it is the mark of genius, for to make good metaphors implies an eye for resemblances.”
—Aristotle (via writingquotes)
I had a high school teacher tell me this once too—that the most difficult thing to do in writing is to come up with good metaphors, and if you can, you’re a...
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MOOC Professors Claim No Responsibility for How... →
Are professors who develop and teach MOOCs [massive open online courses] responsible for how those MOOCs are used?
Mr. Ghrist specializes in applied topology, an abstract math field. In practice, topological math can help someone harness huge collections of sensory inputs—like those collected by cellphones, for example—to model large environments and solve problems.
The Department of...
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"I Watched a Snake'
by Jorie Graham ‘I Watched a Snake’
hard at work in the dry grass behind the house catching flies. It kept on disappearing. And though I know this has something to do with lust, today it seemed to have to do with work. It took it almost half an hour to thread roughly ten feet of lawn, so slow between the blades you couldn’t see ...
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'Voyager'
by Mary Ruefle
I have become an orchid washed in on the salt white beach. Memory, what can I make of it now that might please you— this life, already wasted and still strewn with miracles?
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'OCD'
by Neil Hilborn
The first time I saw her… Everything in my head went quiet.
All the ticks, all the constantly refreshing images just disappeared.
When you have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, you don’t really get quiet moments.
Even in bed, I’m thinking:
Did I lock the doors? Yes. Did I wash my hands? Yes. Did I lock the doors? Yes. Did I wash my hands? Yes.
But when I saw her, the only...
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'Song on the Subway'
by Ocean Vuong
Rush-hour on the A train. A blind man staggers forth, his cane tapping lightly down the aisle. He leans against the door, raises a violin to chin, and says I’m sorry to bother you, folks. But please. Just listen. And it kills me, the word sorry. As if something like music should be forgiven. He nuzzles into the wood like a lover, inhales, and at the first slow stroke,...
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West 10th: 2012-2013 →
The 2012-2013 edition of West 10th is so beautiful, especially the prose pieces. I finally got my hands on one on Friday, at the Creative Writing House’s spring reading—my copy so far is furious with underlining; I can’t put it down. Stick around for when the editors put up a free flip-through on Issuu. For now, flip through their previous issues.
April 2013
18 posts
18 tags
A Pure, High Note of Anguish
Published on Sunday, September 23, 2001 by the Los Angeles Times
A Pure, High Note of Anguish by Barbara Kingsolver
TUCSON — I want to do something to help right now. But I can’t give blood (my hematocrit always runs too low), and I’m too far way to give anybody shelter or a drink of water. I can only give words. My verbal hemoglobin never seems to wane, so words are what...
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“I had a dream the other night, where
it was like a nightmare, where I ran out...”
– Midnight in Paris, can’t imagine a better delivery than the one Owen Wilson gave
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pigmenting:
I’m thinking I watched a man and his son holding hands as they crossed a parking lot last night, thinking I was moved by the root or lifeboat or ladder of the father’s arm into the life of the son, the root or labyrinth of his arm as they moved at the pace of the child, whose walking still bore signs of the womb, of being wobbly water and I wanted to reverse my vasectomy on...
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commovente:
And this is how we danced: our mothers’ white dresses spilling from our feet, late August
turning our hands dark red. And this is how we loved: a fifth of vodka and an afternoon in the attic, your fingers
sweeping through my hair—my hair a wildfire. We covered our ears and your father’s tantrum turned
to heartbeats. When our lips touched the day closed into a coffin. In the...
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commovente:
Every city in America is approached through a work of art, usually a bridge but sometimes a road that curves underneath or drops down from the sky. Pittsburgh has a tunnel—
you don’t know it—that takes you through the rivers and under the burning hills. I went there to cry in the woods or carry my heavy bicycle through fire and flood. Some have little parks—
San Francisco has a...
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joliajerky:
ohyousillypotato:
what i’m looking for in a man:
will lend me his hoodies
good sense of humor
is a cutie patootie
will slay my enemies in a brutal display of violence and paint his face with their blood defeat my evil exes
good taste in music
i changed it a little.
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Jake Moore in the Minetta Review
jakemoore:
the minetta review published my essay “on social *b*eings.”
read it if facebooking has ever caused you existential terror. read it here, after the jump:
Read More
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slowly, somewhere
brightlightsloudnoises:
I stood on a san diego beach and looked west, there didn’t seem to be too many gimmicks there on the thin light blue horizon, just something that had been made neither on purpose nor by accident, it was truth and genius and it didn’t strain for it, it was just there, it was the hand of god, and that can mean what you need it to mean because I guess this is poetry, and...
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standing on the brink of night
brightlightsloudnoises:
out of the shotgunned beers and lost car keys you were the only good thing to emerge
you rose out of the late nights parked cars cigarette flares and plastic cups
with a squeal and the moon
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March 2013
57 posts
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world-shaker:
“In a traditional classroom, when a teacher asks a question, “Who can tell me … ?” usually four or five hands go up. The teacher will call on one student, and perhaps on another few to see if their answers agree with the first, but the teacher will have no way of knowing what is going on in the heads of the other 20 students. The kinesthetic teacher has a different approach....
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capilipino:
One of the hardest things a person can do is let go of their fears and doubts and insecurities in order to go after the things that they want. It’s those moments when we genuinely believe that we are good enough that make us come to the realization that we do in fact deserve the things that make us happy. We deserve to fulfill our passions. We deserve to love and be loved. We deserve...
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that awkward moment you frantically navigate through your hard drive to see whether you used a hyphen, en dash, or em dash to separate dates on the resume you sent for an editorial internship
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neenuhbee:
queenaisling:
a-weeping-fangirl:
When the back of a book has a bunch of reviews instead of a summary
Except for Ellen’s book right
and tina fey’s
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comakid:
(written with seasicklumberjack ) a grown man is sitting by himself at a table in a sandwich shop. he is swinging his legs and staring at his grilled cheese bluebirds keep flying into the window that he is sitting next to and landing lifeless on the pavement. the man notices and admires for a brief moment then continues reading the stephen king novel that he had brought along. he...
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comakid:
we hold onto our childhood memories like a pokemon holding onto an everstone.
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