21 feet under
4 am blue
all over coffee
Amnesty International
Amnesty International USA
bay folk sketchbook
beautiful shadows
brian andreas
cat power
cynthia connolly
cynthia connolly -- banned in dc
dissociated voices (sound samples on the bottom)
donald miller
dover beach
dresden dolls
drinking sky and sweet black
God's Debris
green night on a dusty red moon
he scanned it, staggered
how now brown sock?
i found this magazine in santa cruz . . .
jacaranda (greysight)
jonathan hartsaw
jones soda
koyaanisqatsi
letters from home. (Rnk.)
listen to the rain (turn your speakers on)
mindwalk
mogwai
paul madonna
pedro the lion
pleiades
richard stine
Rivers and Tides
SAP
staring out the window at the rain (my old blog)
the deep end. seven feet.
the deep end. seven feet. part 2.
the near and the far
thirteen
throatshot
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what happened to lani garver
white oleander
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This is my blogchalk:
United States, California, sometimes Steiermark, Austria, something bored teenagers say when they speak useless words into brick walls of cotton candy, English, German, Noreia,creative writing, fiction, reading, college student, strange, cat power, mogwai, arap strap, dresden dolls, white oleander, the earth, my butt, and other big, round things, welcome to the dollhouse, fuckers.
remind myself to gasp
so i wake up and think, reality. and i go back to sleep.
i get up later, make too-strong coffee, read about fast food and prodigies. i'll be eating oatmeal for a month, i don't mind, yeah, lost my mind, yeah. outside everything is tinged with a hope of rain, with that grey and chill and the green of the tree leaves that just looks like it wants to be wet. downpour, rain down from a great height. i love to look out the living room window at the neighbors' giant maple tree. trees are wise, i feel it. i feel lit. i feel that i feel them, i touch their bark where teenagers have scawled their names in hearts with pen knives. "i'm sorry," i whisper upwards to the ancient-spirited branches. trees are sad, i think. these trees, confined to sections of sidewalk, ignored except to be carved into and pruned. i think they cry, i think i can hear them. they make sad music and it soothes me and it bleeds me.
"I am amazed by the beauty of everything," she wrote, "but in a numb, accepting way. I worry and waste my time and I find myself having to remind myself to pray, and remind myself to gasp."
moon phases |