And Then It Was

reminiscence, possibility, art, love, memory

May 22

At High Tide

The creek broadens sweeping shoreline into self.

It reads barnacles lined on reeves like Braille

incanting the solidness with a saline tongue.

High priestess, reader of scrolls

a blind mother searching for her litter of brilliancies.

The shore, the stone, the reed

toothy otter rooted riverside

she is all womb, throat, a metastasizing medicine

and the land cannot swallow but be swallowed.

-Alexander Stinton


Mar 13

Jul 20

Jun 18

We don’t give other people credit for the same interior complexity we take for granted in ourselves, the same capacity for holding contradictory feelings in balance, for complexly alloyed affections, for bottomless generosity of heart and petty, capricious malice. We can’t believe that anyone could be unkind to us and still be genuinely fond of us, although we do it all the time.

Years ago a friend of mine had a dream about a strange invention; a staircase you could descend deep underground, in which you heard recordings of all the things anyone had ever said about you, both good and bad. The catch was, you had to pass through all the worst things people had said before you could get to the highest compliments at the very bottom. There is no way I would ever make it more than two and a half steps down such a staircase, but I understand its terrible logic: if we want the rewards of being loved we have to submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known.

I Know What You Think of Me, New York Times (via apleasantsurprise)

Apr 7
The Poem

Not the sunset poem you make when you think
                         aloud,
with its linden tree in India ink
and the telegraph wires across its pink
                         cloud;

not the mirror in you and her delicate bare
shoulder still glimmering there;
not the lyrical click of a pocket rhyme—
the tiny music that tells the time;

and not the pennies and weights on those
evening papers piled up in the rain;
not the cacodemons of carnal pain;
not the things you can say so much better in plain prose—

but the poem that hurtles from heights unknown
—when you wait for the splash of the stone
deep below, and grope for your pen,
and then comes the shiver, and then—

in the tangle of sounds, the leopards of words,
the leaflike insects, the eye-spotted birds
fuse and form a silent, intense,
mimetic pattern of perfect sense.
-Vladimir Nabokov


Apr 3
“"It was the eyes that got me," Rayber said. "Children may be attracted to mad eyes. A grown person could have resisted. A child couldn’t. Children are cursed with believing." from The Violent Bear It Away, by Flannery O’Connor &” Swim Away

Jan 24

Jan 20

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