Skip to content

Monthly Archives: March 2009

She made it up with housecat bravado.

A real backstage mostly resembles the opening tease of The Muppet Show: dust, bustle, and unflattering light. Em had gotten over her delusions of glamour pretty fast, though the delusions of grandeur took a little longer to kick her off the ledge. Now, she dodged a costume trolley, sidestepped a roadie, and managed to find […]

A strong case for not letting trainees drive a battle cruiser.

“A new tack that is somehow focused on me getting punched,” Harry said, setting his drink back down. “Maybe,” Schmidt said. “Once or repeatedly?” Harry asked. “I think that would depend on your definition,” Schmidt said. “Of ‘once’?” Harry asked. “Of ‘punched,’ actually,” Schmidt said. “I already have very deep reservations about this plan,” Harry […]

seeming somehow separate from the sounds that issued

If you’ve never wept and want to, have a child. – read “Incarnations of Burned Children” by David Foster Wallace

I worked at the clinic because Lenny Bruce was not afraid.

“Spilt milk,” I told myself, the fire truck parked between two police cars on the street, the protestors who couldn’t hear me, and God. “If it’s messy it means we’re really changing something. It’ll get better.” – read “Kimberley Ann Duray Is Not Afraid” by Leah Bobet

You are going to ruin everything.

I’m switching it up a bit today and instead of posting some deathless prose, I’m going to point you at the best comics you will ever read. (The title of this post is from the third comic in this entry, which Alan and I have taken to quoting darkly to each other.)

RaceFail ’09

By the way, just in case anybody is wondering, I haven’t been posting about RaceFail ’09 not because I’m not listening or don’t care, but because I don’t feel as though I have anything to say which has not been more excellently said by others.

Carl Sandburg’s “Fog”

The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on.

Sun dissolves in hair.

No matter what they carry the world holds them in its grip simply because, they have a way to loosen love. – from “Women at Forty” by Carole Glasser Langille

She always drew thick clear lines between herself and such girls, and her mother was simple and kind enough to believe it.

Her name was Connie. She was fifteen and she had a quick, nervous giggling habit of craning her neck to glance into mirrors or checking other people’s faces to make sure her own was all right. Her mother, who noticed everything and knew everything and who hadn’t much reason any longer to look at her […]

a breath made of bees

a splinter of the evening breeze brought across such a distance it is now a word. They have placed it under glass. – from “Moving a Greenhouse” by Harold Rhenisch