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![szymon:
A bicycle shop in Altlandsberg, Germany… ;]](http://26.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_l7r7ryDc4h1qz4s3wo1_500.jpg)
A bicycle shop in Altlandsberg, Germany… ;]
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Cows relax amongst pigeons during the Gaijatra parade in Kathmandu, Nepal
Picture: REUTERS (via Pictures of the day: 25 August 2010 - Telegraph)
yes!
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reminder: book swap tonight!
hope to see you at housing works at 6:30p. click here for details.
I’m currently in Florida (not as fun as it sounds) but reblogging for NY book friends.
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here is something
It’s these things that make me sad: he’s into bikes now, all of my best friends in different states, every character I make is broken.
I’ve turned my brain off this vacation. I haven’t read anything, or written. It’ll be a struggle just to write about a trip to the zoo next week. But I miss New York, I miss classes and work and stimulation. Rest is nice but I need to be busy. I need to see people and learn things and be moving almost constantly. When I stand still for too long even punk music can make me cry. It’s not supposed to do that.
I have all of these dresses hanging in plastic bags that I can’t wear anywhere. There’s nowhere formal enough to take them out. Nothing fits anymore. I know where I want to be and what I want to do. Now can it just happen, please?
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Books are finite, sexual encounters are finite, but the desire to read and to fuck are infinite; it surpasses our own deaths, our fears, our hopes for peace."
Roberto Bolaño speaking of Stéphane Mallarmé’s quote The flesh is sad—and I’ve read every book. (via frenchtwist) (via fuckyeahtumblrsilove) (via quickienewyork) -
Things Break
We fell in love at the same time. We even fell in love with each other at the same time. We just didn’t do it the same way.
I fell in love with her voice and the way she ordered drinks at the bar. I fell in love with how she did her hair and how she got dressed in the morning. I loved the way she stood on her tip-toes to kiss me and I loved how she wrote songs in the shower that she later belted out in dingy bars.
She fell in love with my need for silence and my habit of waking up early to write. She loved that I didn’t drink coffee and rarely drank whisky. She would sit and watch me on the fire escape and she’d work me quietly into songs so I almost didn’t notice.
The first time we slept together the condom broke. We bonded over test results, anxiety, and assurance, but we were less careful after that and sometimes we were dumb.
She was noise and I was quiet, and we loved each other in the spaces in between. We laughed and we fucked and we traded friends and apartments, and we were good at everything.
We kept each other safe, but in the end we couldn’t help remember that things break.—Guy New York
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The portfolio is called “In Memory of the Late Mr. and Mrs. Comfort” and it’s from a November 1995 issue of The New Yorker. It is bonkers.
I got to see prints of this series in person at some gallery in SoHo last summer during my brief stint interning at a photo magazine. Oh man was it incredible. And seeing it next to the traditional Avalon portraits makes it that much more striking. I miss leisurely museum visits.
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POETS HOUSE GUIDESTARS: My Journey to Poets House
I am convinced we are all on a journey and the lucky ones among us are willing to record and remember our stories from these journeys. My journey is defined in part by my journey to Poets House. It began on a Friday morning last September when I opened The New York Times…
love notes
these are things that I could not tell you;
things that remind me of you when I want nothing more than to forget;
things that have gone wrong;
things that have gone right;
things that will never happen;
things that are your fault,
my fault,
the faults of no one;
these are things that we did not do and will not let go of
elsewhere:
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