January 2012
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There was nothing in the world that was not a con, suddenly I understood this....
– Miranda July, “Something That Needs Nothing,” from the collection No One Belongs Here More Than You
December 2011
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In an ideal world, we would have been orphans. We felt like orphans and we felt...
– Miranda July, “Something That Needs Nothing,” from the collection No One Belongs Here More Than You
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I had never been in love, I had been a peaceful man, but now I was caught in...
– Miranda July, “The Sister,” from the collection No One Belongs Here More Than You
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I have never taken such care with anything. That is my problem with life, I rush...
– Miranda July, “The Man on the Stairs,” from the collection No One Belongs Here More Than You
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And that’s why I have to go back
to so many places in the future
there...
– Pablo Neruda, End of the World (Wind)
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We’re all dreamers; we don’t know who we are.
Some machine made us; machine of...
–
Louise Glück, “Mother and Child” (The Seven Ages, Ecco, 2001)
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The morning breezes have secrets to tell; don’t go back to sleep.
– Rumi (via trua)
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If you are sad, ask yourself why you are sad. Then pick up the phone and call...
– Miranda July, “The Shared Patio,” from the collection No One Belongs Here More Than You
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This pain, this dying, this is just normal. This is how life is…. Life is...
– Miranda July, “Majesty,” from the collection No One Belongs Here More Than You
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But in the end, back she comes. There’s no use resisting. She goes to him...
– Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin
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The only way you can write the truth is to assume that what you set down will...
– Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin
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… we hoard epiphanies under the bed,
stuff them in jars and bury them in the...
– Joanie Mackowski, from “Epiphany” (Poetry, November 2011)
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Some of the best things are done by those with nowhere to turn, by those who...
– Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin
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Even if love was underneath it all, there was a great deal piled on top, and...
– Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin
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Why should pleasure sound so much like distress? Like someone wounded....
– Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin
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"zoo sonnet," by dawn lonsinger
[and every creeping thing that creepeth]
the veined flood did not care what the mute sang and when he died into it, the event, gist boarded, feather and fang all abang in the hull, pupils wet wet, merely lent for the ride/tide/tidings. Carcasses lift up around us like advice, flotation devices. Leashes are of light & sift into us. Bewitched prey of salvation. Rumor has it the birds were...
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Beginnings are sudden, but also insidious. They creep up on you sideways, they...
– Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin
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Farewells can be shattering, but returns are surely worse.
– Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin
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Our envelope, as I have called it, the cultural insulation that separates us...
– Northop Frye, Creation and Recreation
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You know the parlor trick.
wrap your arms around your own body
and from the...
– “Embrace” by Billy Collins (via clavicola)
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Last night I watched the weather channel, as is my habit. Elsewhere in the world...
– Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin
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The picture in the book is of a leaping man covered in flames—wings of...
– Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin
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More and more I feel like a letter—deposited here, collected there. But a...
– Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin
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Anonymous asked: I'm knitting the same scarf as you :D
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"My Mother Dwindles..." by Margaret Atwood
My mother dwindles and dwindles and lives and lives. Her strong heart drives her as heedless as an engine through one night after another. Everyone says This can’t go on, but it does. It’s like watching somebody drown.
If she were a boat, you’d say the moon shines through her ribs and no one’s steering yet she can’t be said to be drifting somebody’s in there....
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from: "Bowls of Food," by Rumi
I make promises
to myself and break them. Words are coins: the vein of ore and the
mine shaft, what they speak of. Now consider the sun. It’s neither
oriental nor occidental. Only the soul knows what love is. This
moment in time and space is an eggshell with an embryo crumpled
inside, soaked in belief-yolk, under the wing of grace, until it
breaks free of...
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The suchness of sex comes from being inside the pleasure.
– Rumi, from “What You’ve Been Given,” trans. Coleman Barks
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All Gods Are Carnivorous.
– Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin
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