Feminine Fluidity

I am the water in my father's tea.
Warming his heart with a drink of me.

I am the water dripping off olive leaves,
In my mother's garden, silver signs of peace.

I am a cool towel on my baby brother's brow
Wiping away worry, the only way I know how.

I'm light like warm air, my head up in the clouds.
But I am also rain water soaking into the ground.

Tickling tree roots, sleeping through the dawn.
Waking up slowly like dewdrops on the lawn.

I float down a river and rush into the emerald sea.
I dance to my own song, suspended in the breeze.

When I'm sad it hurts, I cry, quiet 'til I freeze.

I crack with pain and anger until I fall into your glass.

Your sweet embrace. My loving cup, I'll drink you to the last.

What do you do in times of desperation?

When I'm feeling overwhelmed,
like life has spun so fast that my body clenches and every vein, muscle and tendon can't relax,
I keep breathing.
I hug a friend.
I pour a glass of wine
and remind myself I can only change what is mine.
I remember happier times of more control.
Inhale,
exhale
relax, I say,
you're doing fine.




This Saturday, September 19th, you are invited to experience a night of
campfires, hobo-tech, 5¢ cabarets, big-band jazz, cheap whiskey, accordion
orchestras, tent-cities, desperate moments, fire-eating, kisses from
strangers, aerial acts, glimpses of nudity, bathtub gin, a breathtaking
sunrise and a dozen dj's in an all night celebration of the grit, beauty
and desperation of an all-too-familiar past.


Welcome to:
Nineteen Thirty Three


9pm through 9am
Saturday, September 19th
Starting at: 260 Meserole St., Bushwick Brooklyn

Daniel Kahneman

Daniel Kahneman, a Nobel laureate and an Israeli psychologist, wrote about what got him into the fascinating field of psychology. When German Nazis occupied France in 1940s, Kahneman and his family lived in Paris. During the wartime, Jews were required to wear the Star of David and had to obey a 6p.m. curfew. “I had gone to play with a Christian friend and had stayed too late. I turned my brown sweater inside out to walk the few blocks home. As I was walking down an empty street, I saw a German soldier approaching. He was wearing the black uniform that I had been told to fear more than others – the one worn by specially recruited SS soldiers. As I came closer to him, trying to walk fast, I noticed that he was looking at me intently. Then he beckoned me over, picked me up, and hugged me. I was terrified that he would notice the star inside my sweater. He was speaking to me with great emotion, in German. When he put me down, he opened his wallet, showed me a picture of a boy, and gave me some money. I went home more certain than ever that my mother was right: people were endlessly complicated and interesting.” (Kahneman, D. 2003. Maps of bounded rationality: A perspective on intuitive judgment and choice)

Paulo Coelho On What It Means To Be A Writer

This is what I learned about what being a writer meant in the early 1960s:

A writer always wears glasses and never combs his hair. Half the time he feels angry about everything and the other half depressed. He says very 'deep' things. He always has amazing ideas for the plot of his next novel, and hates the one he has just published. A writer has a duty and an obligation never to be understood by his own generation.. A writer understands about things with alarming names, like semiotics, epistemology, neoconcretism. When trying to seduce a woman, a writer says: 'I'm a writer', and scribbles a poem on a napkin. It always works. When invited to say what he is reading at the moment, a writer always mentions a book no one has ever heard of.

-Paulo Coelho

Ashley Casselman
4:34
good
me too
he is the embodiment of everything i was looking for
he's not perfect, but he meets the hell out of the criteria

Adolf Hipster

Lies About Lying

Tell all the Truth but tell it slant –
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth’s superb surprise
As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind –
— Emily Dickinson (#1129)

NYTimes article: http://morris.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/08/05/seven-lies-about-lying-part-1/