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abandonedography:

Life Goes On

I’m going away for a few days (as you may know) and hope to find an abandoned cottage which was once the home to the McMillan family. Yes, of the publishing and UK prime ministerial fame. 
In my absence I hope to receive some rejections. Long in-progress statuses on Submittable make me grossly hopeful. 
For you, doves, I hope to have some interesting photos of the faraway places, on my return.

abandonedography:

Life Goes On

I’m going away for a few days (as you may know) and hope to find an abandoned cottage which was once the home to the McMillan family. Yes, of the publishing and UK prime ministerial fame. 

In my absence I hope to receive some rejections. Long in-progress statuses on Submittable make me grossly hopeful. 

For you, doves, I hope to have some interesting photos of the faraway places, on my return.

Leslie Jamison | Grand Unified Theory of Female Pain | VQR Online

Sure, some news is bigger news than other news. War is bigger news than a girl having mixed feelings about the way some guy slept with her and didn’t call. But I don’t believe in a finite economy of empathy; I happen to think that paying attention yields as much as it taxes. You learn to start seeing

I think dismissing wounds offers a convenient excuse: no need to struggle with the listening or telling anymore. Plug it up. Like somehow our task is to inhabit the jaded aftermath of terminal self-​awareness once the story of all pain has already been told.

Also:

Susan Sontag has described the heyday of a “nihilistic and sentimental” nineteenth-​century logic that found appeal in female suffering: “Sadness made one ‘interesting.’ It was a mark of refinement, of sensibility, to be sad. That is, to be powerless.” This appeal mapped largely onto illness: “Sadness and tuberculosis became synonymous,” she writes, and both were coveted. Sadness was interesting and sickness was its handmaiden, providing not only cause but also symptoms and metaphors: a wracking cough, a wan pallor, an emaciated body. “The melancholy character was a superior one: sensitive, creative, a being apart,” she writes. Sickness was “a becoming frailty … symbolized an appealing vulnerability, a superior sensitivity, [and] became more and more the ideal look for women.”

(Source: lafindesiecle)

I watched a bit of that sadness video and felt as I sometimes do how awful it is we are all living on this planet together right now but that we will each of us die, some sooner, some later. The man who makes a chili+liquid cheese dip for 3-6 people and addresses his audience as ‘wildcats’ will die. And I won’t get to meet him. Maybe he’s already dead.

I feel like there is a lot of hope though, and that if we just notice the weird moments of connection or effort then maybe that is enough of work for us. Considering the lilies, watching their odd, public-access style sunset cookery videos. 

shimmer:

"A dip that will satisfy… a small group."

~ Microwave Cooking With Sad Music

A writing prompt if ever I saw one.

I like the eternal sunset off to one side.

harperperennial:

todaysdocument:

In Vermont, even dogs get excited for the Bookwagon!
Happy National Bookmobile Day!

From “The Day the Books Went Blank”, a 1961 educational film intended to show the importance of maintaining quality libraries, from The Library Extension Agencies of the six New England States.



I am that dog.

I have a deep love of mobile libraries - the isle of Skye had one and it would stop our primary school like an ice cream van. 

harperperennial:

todaysdocument:

In Vermont, even dogs get excited for the Bookwagon!

Happy National Bookmobile Day!

From “The Day the Books Went Blank”, a 1961 educational film intended to show the importance of maintaining quality libraries, from The Library Extension Agencies of the six New England States.

I am that dog.

I have a deep love of mobile libraries - the isle of Skye had one and it would stop our primary school like an ice cream van. 

abal-tyne:

#14 - Red Bull Hill Chasers 2014
Edinburgh
PHOTO © Rutger Pauw/Red Bull Content Pool

I was at this thing! I’m down somewhere off to the right wearing a turquoise scarf but I don’t think I can be seen. D was there too, and our friend A. None of us are into biking (I haven’t ridden more than once since I practiced on a borrowed bike for 2 weeks when I was 15). But it was a Saturday in April, aka the first month in a long time when you can almost feel comfortable outside.

abal-tyne:

#14 - Red Bull Hill Chasers 2014

Edinburgh

PHOTO © Rutger Pauw/Red Bull Content Pool

I was at this thing! I’m down somewhere off to the right wearing a turquoise scarf but I don’t think I can be seen. D was there too, and our friend A. None of us are into biking (I haven’t ridden more than once since I practiced on a borrowed bike for 2 weeks when I was 15). But it was a Saturday in April, aka the first month in a long time when you can almost feel comfortable outside.

(via fuckyeahedinburgh)

dolorimeter:

filled with love for the people who write detailed synopses of horror movies on wikipedia

dolorimeter:

filled with love for the people who write detailed synopses of horror movies on wikipedia

Award-Giving (3) « Kenyon Review Blog - Century Swept Brutal / Black Ocean Award in Excellence

suzannescanlon:

Danielle Dutton (and Dorothy, a publishing project)

It’d be easy to praise Danielle Dutton’s writing by contrasting it with less inventive contemporary fiction. Fiction in which the writer doesn’t understand that inept similes snag in one’s minds (“his tongue moved quickly in her mouth, like the little men on a foosball table”). In which characters are dutifully described from haircut to shoe laces, as though when we meet somebody, we do a full TSA scan. In which the author’s primary ambition seems to be shallow acclaim (in many cases, to evaluate fiction by its success in current publishing is like evaluating a giraffe by whether it’s a shoe). That is, fiction that is sure to disappoint a poet.

Dutton’s writing doesn’t, though it’d be better to praise it for what it is. Permit me blurb? How about: In the portraits, tales, and figments of autobiography in Attempts at a Life (Tarpaulin Sky, 2007), in the poignant farce and onrushing suburban lyricism of her novel Sprawl (Siglio, 2010), Danielle Dutton shows that precision can be giddily disorienting, that the voices we are made of soar in and out of narrative, and that’s the real story.

Here’s a passage from Sprawl:

“It’s bewildering, the way faces pass in and out of my line of vision as I sit in the car and wait for the light to turn green. This place tends to take on a benevolent glow when birds peck at the grass in front of the gas station on the corner. I turn left, then right, then left again, right, left, and then I go straight for quite some time, and then I take a right, another left, a right, and then I’m home: driveway, garage, linoleum, a flight of stairs, a river leading west, south, south-east, east. It’s so old-fashioned, a memory, unimportant events. Lisle and I once heard a branch fall to the ground.”

Dutton is the editor of Dorothy, a publishing project, a press “dedicated to works of fiction or near fiction or about fiction, mostly by women.” The press seeks “to publish books that, whether conventional or un-, are uniquely themselves, that do not lean against preconceived ideas of what is wonderful, but brilliantly and purposefully convince us that they are, themselves, wonderful.” Dorothy is among my favorite publishers of current prose; I’m eager to see what they publish next. (You can read a review of two of their recent books, both by Renee Gladman, by Elaine Bleakney in KROnline.)

from Airplane Sonata

yrfriendliz:

I sometimes love life enough to know

that it is too good for me

and then I wait for my heart to stop

and it doesn’t stop

o let it beat forever

or until I have been moved beyond

where I can recognize

the shape of my deficiency

let me rejoice as I have rejoiced

before

or near as I have ever

- Daniel Bailey