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(via myshoesuntied)

Could watch this for days. It’s like a skinny white female version of James Brown in heels. Annie Clark rocks it. 
Courtesy of severedcrossedfingers via Jeremy and Dalton

Could watch this for days. It’s like a skinny white female version of James Brown in heels. Annie Clark rocks it.

Courtesy of severedcrossedfingers via Jeremy and Dalton

Perfect. MISO’s studio setup.
As the planet gets progressively less innocent, you need a more innocent eye to see it.

At the feast inside my heart, there are many who may eat for free. Myself included. It was probably New Orleans 2003. In either what we call the Yellow Room or what we call the Ocean Room. I was back home after seven years in Savannah Georgia. My mother was living in China. My sister had just moved to Hawaii. My brother started his first year at Carleton. It was just me and Pops. I felt that in the time my mother lived in a different country, he went to a lot of movies to fill his time alone. He was very happy to have me around. We would eat out, have cheeseburgers. I didn’t know what I was doing with my life. I was so lonely. My heart,  so full and so heavy. I missed Savannah and the people it had given me for during my life there. Goddamn I missed that city. I would leave the house some nights around 11pm and drive around for hours. Downtown. Through the Quarter, past Esplanade into the Marigny. Listening to music. A lot of Nada Surf. I would sit at the Rue De La Course coffeeshop on Oak Street plotting and sketching a graphic novel about airplanes and a girl I loved and leaving a city that loved me and about going to movies by myself and about making a comic book about all these things that would never appear. I got a job at the Rue since I was there all the time and cute girls worked behind the counter. Lauren hired me. I cut sandwiches, made lattes, and smelled like coffee grounds. When I worked in the evening, I’d get off and sometimes go get a burger from Camellia Grill before they closed. I’ve been eating there since I was five years old. None of the same people work there but they all treat you like they have and they remember you. I made friends with my coworkers. Talked indie rock with Jack. Talked hometown with Lauren. Talked art with Ed and Doug McQueen. Talked shit with Tim “Cold Drip” Perkins. Joined him at Brother’s on Magazine after our shift. Would joke over the jukebox. Watch the old cowboys sitting at the bar. Ed said one of them was missing his leg. I wanted to kiss Ann. And Leila. And Evelyn. And others. I never did. But I might have could have. And while sometimes that feels worse, sometimes that feels better. And years later laying in Ann’s bed watching the sun come up in Chicago, I felt thankful. Ann and I rode bicycles through the Bywater. She stopped for a raspberry beer. I became friends with Rebecca and in the springtime of New Orleans fell in love. She taught me scales on the piano and told me about the giant clock in Prague. We kissed once. It was 4:29 in the afternoon. Tim made a closing mix of Joe Esposito. Lauren wore boas. Leila played saxophone. Dena and Doug battle for my favorite smile. Doug, Ed, and I sat outside the Race Street cafe in the warm darkness planning an art show like it was 1920s Paris. It was at the SPACE Gallery, upstairs on Magazine. I put paintings in it with them. People filled the space we had made together. I did poems. I didn’t want to. I felt little that evening. But a woman with a broken leg said she had come out just to hear them. My heart can be smoothed when held in the palms of people. Some nights after work, after Brother’s or the Buddha Bar or Camellia Grill, after the flowers of the faces, I’d come home and watch Alan Alda on Nova until just before dawn. It was probably actually only a couple times. I had started fucking around with a guitar the summer before leaving Savannah. When Allyson and Kristie beautifully let me mend myself on their couch for my last two months there, I would practice my stupid little songs, scared of my ugly voice but wanting to hear it get better. After moving back home I had gotten a mini Tascam 4 track recorder. And when Pops went to visit Mom in China, I would stay up all night, bending my guitar through the microphone, beating a rhythm out on the Kentwood water bottle, recording the echoes I would sing into it its emptiness, learning how to make songs without the knowledge that this needs, learning how to howl my inside in only the way that I know how. Making music on the floor of my parents’ house I maybe felt a little bit broken but also a little bit bigger, like I was standing my voice up before me, seeing what shape it had, unsure of when the light would rise behind it but knowing it was on its way.

music from Haley Bonar, with me circa 2003 at the end.


Love these homemade tattoos from Ukrainian artist Stanislava Pinchuk. She does them for friends and friends of friends, for trade. From top left to bottom: Twin Branches for Georgie, traded for a wallet & necklace. A map of the NYC high line from memory for Karlee, traded for the most amazing crystal. Shining moon for B., traded for knitting. A map of five places in Iceland {lightning bolt constellation}, traded for her willingness to be filmed getting it. Melbourne, 2013.

If I’m in Melbourne this fall and wanting a tattoo, perhaps I can track her down and convince a trade. More here, tumbles here.

Sam has finally made it home to my house and I can listen to this. Austin. Post-Record Store Day.

Sam has finally made it home to my house and I can listen to this. Austin. Post-Record Store Day.

5 years

5 years

For Naysan

My brother, the baby in the picture above, is getting married today. In honor of that, here’s something I wrote for him ten years ago, filled with all the angst and existentialism and melodramatic cussing in poetry that the twenties are ripe with :) But under all that are still some things that hold true.

and I’m still in nevada less than an hour outside of las vegas and little brother I got the desert riding on one side of me and a valley of green trees standing like numbered soldiers riding on the right 

and I’m driving between them with tears murmuring to a future not yet here and it’s like damn I wanna be in the desert find god like a cliche amongst the cacti and jackrabbits like a soul growing in something where nothing else does 

nature’s bone yard and cathedral in the same place the two go hand in hand like everything else like the sands on one side and the leaves on the other and little brother I’m thinking of you 

of carving a postcard out of my heart to drop into some ocean with a blink and a kiss and a prayer that my words will find their way to you cuz I got nothing but a stance standing always two sentences away from those tears 

murmuring to a future that’s not yet here talking like a schizophrenic past that doesn’t want to remove itself I got memories like shoulderblades 

and little brother I got a letter I want to write to you

cuz damn I’m missing something these days and I don’t know what it is and I want you to know this for the time that’ll come when you’re looking for yourself or maybe you already are and I need you to know 

my arms are wrapped around my ribs like an eagle wrapping talons around a thin branch keeping himself from falling and reminding the tree that it is alive and I don’t know which one is holding the other together the trunk or the thin sands locking fingers around it my skin is the color of a desert

and I’m trying to peel it off so I can pick it back up and throw it around my shoulders and shake it down over me like soft rain or a softer arm and little brother I know you’re wondering about the same shit all of us are shivering from and damn me 

cuz I can’t get out the words that’ll breathe you to sleep anymore cuz I ain’t any bigger than you anymore only older and baby boy

I’m now twenty-two sentences past those tears and my brain and heart are both still going like a goddamn engine that just won’t die and I just want to have nothing but two legs and the sentences that stretch between my kneecaps and my clouds climbing their way to a throne I know sits somewhere but dammit

this God thing is the last thing I want and this God thing is the only thing I want and these days it seems like days is all I’m doing looking for some shit that damn if someone looking like our mother and somebody looking like our father handed to the three of us but damn if this heart of mine ain’t thick skulled

and as stubborn as I am I know that shit’s genetic and that your knuckles are covering your own poems and damn I know you got the words to bend fire and damn I want you to catch a comet like it was a tadpole only to let it go like we once did letting it grow until the heavens are screaming goddamn shit motherfucker!look at that motherfucker burn with beauty

and you and I and every other goddamned person wondering what this hole is that sits inside every fucking one of us is and what’s it gonna take to fill it up–cuz it ain’t no lips and legs and art and hearts books and bottles

it ain’t the arms of paris ain’t australia’s roads and the branches of prague it ain’t a dream and damn it ain’t the memory (but damn those memories got their fingers so hard and deep into me my neck bleeds every time I open my mouth and my spine screams when I open my eyes and my fingers don’t know what to do whenever my hands open)

it ain’t none of that on its own cuz I been throwing wishes into me for decades now and I’m still empty and I still hunger and I don’t know what the thing is that fills our shapelessness but I know when it comes every one of us is gonna be staring up into the night or the day or the giant ass beacon of light or whatever it is

we gonna be looking up and by up I mean open cuz it’s gonna be in front and behind and inside of us 

we gonna look and whisper just as strongly at those same scarred heavens at that comet you were riding and I was riding and we were all riding before this earth fell off that shit and we’ll all be saying just as loud as it is:

goddamn shit mother fucker look at that motherfucker burn look at that motherfucker burn with beauty!

we are heavens naysan 

every last broken burning one of us is heavens

and I don’t know if you need this shit or even want this shit but I know I do cuz I don’t have anything but a hole in me that for whatever reason God fills everyday and somehow I empty it back out and dammit be like me don’t be like me I don’t know just 

catch Him catch whatever catch it all–this shit this poem this world whatever it is this place we live inside of is our graveyard and it is our church and I got the desert on one end of me and a valley of trees on the other and the sun burns on both and the moon listens quietly to both and I guess I just want you to be as small as you once were cuz then my paper would still be white as the snow and that would mean

that this shit that this shit could be anything

and I’d still be just two sentences in and staring forward

pick up your eyes hold the shovel with two hands remember everything miss none of it hold it all close to your beating birds love none of it love it all

myshoesuntied:

thismtnsoul:

Two-Minute Personality Test
By Jonathan Safran Foer

What’s the kindest thing you almost did? Is your fear of insomnia stronger than your fear of what awoke you? Are bonsai cruel? Do you love what you love, or just the feeling? Your earliest memories: do you look though your young eyes, or look at your young self? Which feels worse: to know that there are people who do more with less talent, or that there are people with more talent? Do you walk on moving walkways? Should it make any difference that you knew it was wrong as you were doing it? Would you trade actual intelligence for the perception of being smarter? Why does it bother you when someone at the next table is having a conversation on a cell phone? How many years of your life would you trade for the greatest month of your life? What would you tell your father, if it were possible? Which is changing faster, your body, or your mind? Is it cruel to tell an old person his prognosis? Are you in any way angry at your phone? When you pass a storefront, do you look at what’s inside, look at your reflection, or neither? Is there anything you would die for if no one could ever know you died for it? If you could be assured that money wouldn’t make you any small bit happier, would you still want more money? What has been irrevocably spoiled for you? If your deepest secret became public, would you be forgiven? Is your best friend your kindest friend? Is it any way cruel to give a dog a name? Is there anything you feel a need to confess? You know it’s a “murder of crows” and a “wake of buzzards” but it’s a what of ravens, again? What is it about death that you’re afraid of? How does it make you feel to know that it’s an “unkindness of ravens”?

This is apparently part of a series to be printed on Chipotle cups, along with Toni Morrison, Malcolm Gladwell, George Saunders, and Michael Lewis. Some folks may love that, some may hate it. Me? I think it’s pretty rad. But is also rather irrelevant to the the wonderfulness of the actual content above.

THEME BY PARTI