it must have been a lie

like the steadfast writer, she is at home in the wind and in the rain; and, thanks to one moment of felicity, she will live on and on and on

“Most things come
by time and circumstance
separated, waiting
to be repaired.”

“East of Torino, where the road runs on the southern side of the Po, the name RITA has been written on a high brick wall in white paint.  Half a kilometre later the same RITA has been written again, this time on the blind end of a house.  The third time RITA is on the ground, on the asphalt of a parking lot.  Many places are named after people.  Following historical convulsions the names get changed.  The road with Rita’s name will always be Rita’s road for the one in love with her, the one who went out one night—a little drunk, or a little desperate, as happens if you’re in love with Rita—with a paintbrush, a screwdriver with white on its handle and a pot of white paint.” - John Berger, To the Wedding Photograph by David E. Scherman. United Kingdom, 1942.

“East of Torino, where the road runs on the southern side of the Po, the name RITA has been written on a high brick wall in white paint.  Half a kilometre later the same RITA has been written again, this time on the blind end of a house.  The third time RITA is on the ground, on the asphalt of a parking lot.  Many places are named after people.  Following historical convulsions the names get changed.  The road with Rita’s name will always be Rita’s road for the one in love with her, the one who went out one night—a little drunk, or a little desperate, as happens if you’re in love with Rita—with a paintbrush, a screwdriver with white on its handle and a pot of white paint.” - John Berger, To the Wedding

Photograph by David E. Scherman. United Kingdom, 1942.

(Source: legrandcirque, via toxic-ponies)

“There is no such thing as a person whose real self you like every particle of. This is why a world of liking is ultimately a lie. But there is such a thing as a person whose real self you love every particle of. And this is why love is such an existential threat to the techno-consumerist order: it exposes the lie.” - Jonathan Franzen

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/05/29/opinion/29franzen.html?_r=1&pagewanted=all

“Pocket” by Matthew Zapruder I like the word pocket. It sounds a little safely dangerous. Like knowing you once bought a headlamp in case the lights go out in a catastrophe. You will put it on your head and your hands will still be free. Or standing in a forest and staring at a picture in a plant book while eating scary looking wild flowers. Saying pocket makes me feel potentially but not yet busy. I am getting ready to have important thoughts. I am thinking about my pocket. Which has its own particular geology. Maybe you know what I mean. I mean I basically know what’s in there and can even list the items but also there are other bits and pieces made of stuff that might not even have a name. Only a scientist could figure it out. And why would a scientist do that? He or she should be curing brain diseases or making sure that asteroid doesn’t hit us. Look out scientists! Today the unemployment rate is 9.4%. I have no idea what that means. I tried to think about it harder for a while. Then tried standing in an actual stance of mystery and not knowing towards the world. Which is my job. As is staring at the back yard and for one second believing I am actually rising away from myself. Which is maybe what I have in common right now with you.And now I am placing my hand on this very dusty table. And brushing away the dust. And now I am looking away and thinking for the last time about my pocket. But this time I am thinking about its darkness. Like the bottom of the sea. But without the blind florescent creatures floating in a circle around the black box which along with tremendous thunder and huge shards of metal from the airplane sank down and settled here where it rests, cheerfully beeping.

“Pocket”

by Matthew Zapruder

I like the word pocket. It sounds a little safely 
dangerous. Like knowing you once 
bought a headlamp in case the lights go out 
in a catastrophe. You will put it on your head 
and your hands will still be free. Or 
standing in a forest and staring at a picture 
in a plant book while eating scary looking wild flowers. 
Saying pocket makes me feel potentially 
but not yet busy. I am getting ready to have 
important thoughts. I am thinking about my pocket. 
Which has its own particular geology. 
Maybe you know what I mean. I mean 
I basically know what’s in there and can even 
list the items but also there are other bits 
and pieces made of stuff that might not 
even have a name. Only a scientist could figure 
it out. And why would a scientist do that? 
He or she should be curing brain diseases 
or making sure that asteroid doesn’t hit us. 
Look out scientists! Today the unemployment rate 
is 9.4%. I have no idea what that means. I tried 
to think about it harder for a while. Then 
tried standing in an actual stance of mystery 
and not knowing towards the world. 
Which is my job. As is staring at the back yard 
and for one second believing I am actually 
rising away from myself. Which is maybe 
what I have in common right now with you.
And now I am placing my hand on this 
very dusty table. And brushing away 
the dust. And now I am looking away 
and thinking for the last time about my pocket. 
But this time I am thinking about its darkness. 
Like the bottom of the sea. But without 
the blind florescent creatures floating 
in a circle around the black box which along 
with tremendous thunder and huge shards 
of metal from the airplane sank down and settled 
here where it rests, cheerfully beeping.

“How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives. What we do with this hour, and that one, is what we are doing. A schedule defends from chaos and whim. It is a net for catching days. It is a scaffolding on which a worker can stand and labor with both hands at sections of time. A schedule is a mock-up of reason and order—willed, faked, and so brought into being; it is a peace and a haven set into the wreck of time; it is a lifeboat on which you find yourself, decades later, still living.” - Annie Dillard, The Writing Life

(Source: Spotify)