And if you can’t shape your life the way you want,
at least try as much as you can
not to degrade it
by too much contact with the world,
by too much activity and talk.
Try not to degrade it by dragging it along,
taking it around and exposing it so often
to the daily silliness
of social events and parties,
until it comes to seem a boring hanger-on.
—Constantine P. Cavafy
No. Although, if you put Mila Kunis in front of me, I’d probably revise my answer.
“That took balls.”
“Please,” I said with a snort, “that took ovaries. Of which I have two.”
” —Darynda Jones, First Grave on the RightI do not hide behind facades and sometimes I fear rainy days and intersections. I hold my breath on days like that, when I am sad and down and lonely and crossing through a street, even if it there is a stop sign. I am afraid of dying on days like that; never seeing the end of what I’m going for. I’m eternally afraid that there is always something on the other side—something beyond my range of view that I can hardly see: something fuzzy and faded but warm and comforting, beckoning me to join it, embrace it.
I try and stay healthy and fashionable and keep my hair maintained as the wind blows it all around. I smile at boys and try and not smile at girls. I talk in classes and keep my voice down when I’m feeling anxious. I am helpful and friendly, at least I think so. I do not mind a hard day’s work; I know that I am not above it. I enjoy family parties even though they don’t talk to me; I sleep in the nude in summer because my air condition doesn’t work and the Texas heat keeps on rising. I am afraid of men, though I am gay, I am afraid of their stares, their shoulders, their arms, their hands, their lips, their asses, their cocks, their feet. I am afraid of their eyes which watch me, which pick me apart, which analyze me and tell me that I am not a man.
I don’t like the taste of beer and I hate that I don’t like the taste of beer. I get anxious at parties and almost blacked out at my high school prom due to anxiety. I went to prom alone and it never occurred to me—really occurred to me that is—that I went alone till a year later. I went with friends, I assumed, but even then my friends were all in pairs. They were all coupled up and I wasn’t and there I was alone in the dark trying not to pass out, thinking about all the good I have done and all the good I am. I held my breath like I do when I pass through intersections; the men’s eyes were on me and I wish that for a second they would stop judging me. Gay men saying, “you’re not gay enough”, straight men saying “you’re not straight enough” party men saying “you’re not social enough” introvert men saying “you’re not introverted enough”. You’re not artistic enough, you’re not deep enough, you’re not fashionable enough, you’re not cute enough, you’re not man enough, you’re not woman enough, you’re not butch enough, you’re not femme enough, you’re not insightful enough, you’re not writer enough; artist enough; loving enough; friendly enough; caring enough. You’re not enough.
I do not hide behind facades, or so I have told myself before. I am afraid of rainy days sometimes, and intersections, and red-haired boys with perfect smiles, and blond haired boys with perfect eyes. I am afraid of men and fall in love with women. I love people too much; I convince myself that I need them in my life and hurt when they don’t need me. I let the past strangle me and believe the future is full of failure and yet I still hold my breath and hope that I don’t die before I get to see the things that are just beyond the horizon: the fuzzy things that are warm and comforting—that beckon me towards them with open arms.
I need to update my ‘Blogs to Follow” page. If you have any suggestions or would like to submit your own tumblr, let me know right here.
Tumblin at work. Prepare for spam.
A moody child and wildly wise
Pursued the game with joyful eyes,
Which chose, like meteors, their way,
And rived the dark with private ray:
They overleapt the horizon’s edge,
Searched with Apollo’s privilege;
Through man, and woman, and sea, and star
Saw the dance of nature forward far;
Through worlds, and races, and terms, and times
Saw musical order, and pairing rhymes.
Olympian bards who sung
Divine ideas below,
Which always find us young,
And always keep us so.
—Ralph Waldo Emerson
My heart is heavy with many a song
Like ripe fruit bearing down the tree,
But I can never give you one —
My songs do not belong to me.
Yet in the evening, in the dusk
When moths go to and fro,
In the gray hour if the fruit has fallen,
Take it, no one will know.
—Sara Teasdale
Chuck Klosterman being, well, Chuck Klosterman-y paints a picture of a rock night (doubleheader of Creed & Nickelback at two separate venues) most of us would probably be ok with skipping.
I don’t know about you folks, but I’m up for some serious craft time now that I’ve seen some truly awesome artwork on Telegraph’s website. Follow the above link to a slideshow of book sculptures made by Alexander Korzer-Robinson.
He says he doesn’t feel like working today.
It’s just as well. Here in the shade
Behind the house, protected from street noises.
One can go over all kinds of old feeling,
Throw some away, keep others.
The wordplay
Between us gets very intense when there are
Fewer feelings around to confuse things.
Another go-round? No, but the last things
You always find to say are charming, and rescue me
Before the night does. We are afloat
On our dreams as on a barge made of ice,
Shot through with questions and fissures of starlight
That keep us awake, thinking about the dreams
As they are happening. Some occurrence. You said it.
I said it but I can hide it. But I choose not to.
Thank you. You are a very pleasant person.
Thank you. You are too.
—John Ashbery
The thoughts that rain their steady glow
Like stars on life’s cold sea,
Which others know or say they know—
They never shone for me.
Thoughts light, like gleams, my spirit’s sky,
But they will not remain.
They light me once, they hurry by;
And never come again.
—Matthew Arnold
After I had cut off my hands
and grown new ones
something my former hands longed for
came and asked to be rocked.
After my plucked out eyes
had withered, and new ones grown
something my former eyes had wept for
came asking to be pitied.
—Denise Levertov
August, 1969
Yes, I do have a few of those. For the most part I try to take care of my books (no dog ears, food stains). But several copies of Fahrenheit 451, Pride & Prejudice, and Frankenstein have been laid to rest over the years. And my first copy of I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings is quite literally being held together with tape and Elmer’s glue, never to be tossed. These are all paperbacks though. Maybe someday I’ll love a hardback to pieces.
This was a great question. Actually, I’m really interested in knowing what everyone else’s thoughts are on this. Pro reading to pieces? Are you finicky about the shape of your books, maybe just certain ones? Send your messages through the ask. :)
Nothing good will ever come from reading William Shirer before bed.
Stanza II
Was it something said,
Something done,
Vexed him? Was it touch of hand,
Turn of head?
Strange. That very way
Love begun:
I as little understand
Love’s decay.
Robert Browning
The debt is paid,
The verdict said,
The Furies laid,
The plague is stayed,
All fortunes made;
Turn the key and bolt the door,
Sweet is death forevermore.
Nor haughty hope, nor swart chagrin,
Nor murdering hate, can enter in.
All is now secure and fast;
Not the gods can shake the Past;
Flies-to the adamantine door
Bolted down forevermore.
None can reenter there, -
No thief so politic,
No Satan with a royal trick
Steal in by window, chink or hole,
To bind or unbind, add what lacked
Insert a leaf, or forge a name,
New-face or finish what is packed,
Alter or mend eternal Fact.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
It’s been too long, hasn’t it?
9 books for $25
Liquidation sales are simultaneously sad and wonderful.
It just occurred to me that some of you still may not have heard about Borders. Borders filed Chapter 11 early this year, were almost saved, but they announced liquidation recently and are closing their doors rather quickly. My advice would be to storm the doors as quickly as possible if there’s something you’ve been looking for but have been waiting to go on sale.
This is probably one of the most common asks I get. So I figure I’ll do one of these from time to time. Check ‘em out.
Bookfessions
FYeahQueerTeenLit
IHeartClassics
WritersandKitties
SharingPoetry
I’m back from my trip. It was fantastic. Unfortunately I didn’t get any pictures with the authors, but I did get David Levithan to autograph my copy of Love is the Higher Law. I also talked with Arthur Levine for a little while, whose name may sound familiar to Harry Potter adorers. I have a whole bunch of stories, but the only other short one that speaks for itself without a full essay is this: I danced with Stephanie Perkins and Maureen Johnson. And half the Starkids troupe, but that’s besides the point…
I have some good news for any John Green fiends out there. I have the first chapter of his new book The Fault in Our Stars, which is to be released next May and is dominating a lot of charts right now from its preorder sales. The first chapter was read by his sister-in-law, because John was ill and had gone home. So I will be putting that up on youtube soon and linking it here.
Consider this a formal apology for the shaky camera footage, it’s really bad; heads kept getting in my way. Eh, that’s what I get for arriving late and sitting in the back. I might transcribe the first chapter if I have the time, we’ll see.
I’m meeting a bunch of YA authors, agents, and publishers on Wednesday.
I am freaking out a bit.
I’ll bring back pictures, hopefully. There’s bound to be a good story when I get back. Or just a really awkward one about how I became tongue-tied and totally blew my moment.
Do you want me to ask any specific questions if I get the chance?
Now as the train bears west,
Its rhythm rocks the earth,
And from my Pullman berth
I stare into the night
While others take their rest.
Bridges of iron lace,
A suddenness of trees,
A lap of mountain mist
All cross my line of sight,
Then a bleak wasted place,
And a lake below my knees.
Full on my neck I feel
The straining at a curve;
My muscles move with steel,
I wake in every nerve.
I watch a beacon swing
From dark to blazing bright;
We thunder through ravines
And gullies washed with light.
Beyond the mountain pass
Mist deepens on the pane;
We rush into a rain
That rattles double glass.
Wheels shake the roadbed stone,
The pistons jerk and shove,
I stay up half the night
To see the land I love.
Theodore Roethke
