The texture of longing is ever changing, but some things are non-negotiable, it is always wood, with a visible grain. Rough-hewn, sanded to a matte or polished to a deep cherry glow, all of these have their place. And before you argue that longing is a bolt of satin, the edge of a blade or the texture of coarse salt rubbed between two fingers – it is not. It never has been. The satin is desire, the blade – heartbreak and the salt … well everybody knows what the salt is.
It is finished. #karamazov #goodreads #ruinedforallotherbooks
Halfway into the kitchen, I turned around and came back to the desk to write something down and I was all kinds of delighted and afraid I would forget what I meant to write while the computer was warming up. When the blank document finally opened and my fingers hit the keyboard, HAKUNA MATATA were the only fucking words in my head.
I hope your world is kind. By which I mean, I’ve heard we see the world not as it is but as we are.
– Neil Gaiman
After a six-week immersion in symphonic metal (how the hell did I not know this existed?!) I’m in a Father John Misty mood this weekend. Specifically, I returned to Fear Fun in anticipation of God’s Favorite Customer. If this was a proper blog, you’d get links and all that stuff, but it’s not and you’re gonna have to work for it if you want to get in on it.
This is the album that always makes me think of Mary and Ethan and Don and Bliss and Mia in and around LA. But ever since our Vancouver trip last month, “Nancy From Now On” conjures the empty Sacramento airport at 5:45 am on a Wednesday … baby pink Sudio earbuds in and blasting … sixteen flags into plants vs. zombies Survival Mode … adventure-ready but chill as all get out … that’s my FJM.
I may well be the first person who ever yelled: “If I could just listen to fucking El Shaddi one fucking time all the way through, I would be SOOOOOOOOOO fucking chill.” but I am damn sure that I am not the first person who ever thought it.
What is hell? I maintain that it is
the suffering of being unable to love.
– Fyodor Dostoyevsky
I remember when Jen and I were ready to be warriors for Jesus, only to find that the role they intended for us was different. At best we could hope to be helpmates to a man with great potential. Beyond that, we were bait. This became crystal clear at Bill Stewart’s memorial, as his protégées told their well-worn and charming tales of being drawn into the church by the pretty girls in the choir.
We wanted to be warriors and my friend Jen became one.
I am unspeakably proud of what she has done.
The first time I understood that books were superior to film, it was during a PEANUTS holiday special, a televised treat in our house. Ruby and I scoop cups into the inexplicably-never-washed family popcorn bowl and clamor for the best view.
It was my dear Linus …
my love for the boy with the blue blanket and the bitten thumb knows no bounds
… and his mythical Great Pumpkin, a story-line I knew well. It should have been an even-better-than-the-original kind of moment and yet somehow the animated version didn’t elicit a little girl’s belly laugh the way that Schultz in all his magic had done on the page.
I can’t explain what was lost in translation, only that at seven years old, I knew something had been.
I was trying to Google the quote “I punish myself for my whole life” from The Brothers Karamazov, but I accidentally typed “I punish myself for my whoe life” which of course reads aloud as “hoe life”. That drastically changes the whole damn thing, but honestly might also apply. After I’ve laughed sufficiently, I go to see what my translation says and its even better, tho not so poetic.
I condemn myself for my past life and I sentence myself to suffer for the rest of my life.
Казню себя за всю жизнь, всю жизнь мою наказую.
That feels like a fitting tattoo for me, tho I probably need to wait and see how everything plays out. #BookInk