austinkleon:

Shirley Jackson, We Have Always Lived In The Castle

Yikes.

Jonathan Lethem wrote of Jackson in 1997:

The real crisis came near the end of her life, resulting in a period of agoraphobia and psychosis; she wrote her way through it in “We Have Always Lived in the Castle.” In that novel, Jackson brilliantly isolates the two aspects in her psyche into two odd, damaged sisters: one hypersensitive and afraid, unable to leave the house, the other a sort of squalid demon prankster who may or may not have murdered the rest of her family for her fragile sister’s sake. For me, it is that unique and dreamlike book, rather than “The Lottery,” that stands as her masterpiece.

Filed under: my reading year 2014

There are a few books that I can’t wait to reread anytime someone mentions them. This is one of those books. 

Have never been a big fan of this Edward Gorey-ish cover, though. I much prefer the treehouse treatment on the lower left corner of this shot

I go downstairs to get water and find dad watching hockey.

"We winning?"

He turns away from the TV. “No. 4-2, Calgary.”

I fill a glass and sit on the couch. Dad shifts in his recliner.

"Are you going to talk to your mother again?"

"Yeah." I realize the sound on the TV is muted. He’s been watching this game in silence. "Do you have a headache?"


"What?"

"The sound?"

"Oh," he leans for the remote. "They were talking about all the empty houses in Detroit."



”On the game? You mean the announcers?”

"Yeah, they were doing one of those videos about how much the Red Wings mean to Detroit. Soul of the city and all that."

"And you didn’t want to hear that?"

Dad doesn’t answer right away. “Not from them.”

My favorite things don’t happen from plans or accidents, but somewhere beautiful in-between, where some thought and some sound and some image slide into each other’s arms and caress one another, like your first slow dance introducing all you’ve ever wanted to all that you have, a nervous “Hi, hello, how are you, good, and you?” that entwines the fingers of promise and problem, desire and apprehension, a reassuring shoulder and a fist in one’s stomach, a gasp and a whimper, a smile and a tear, the first taste of your last chance, the echo you cannot yet hear. 
  • Camera: iPhone 5s
  • Aperture: f/2.2
  • Exposure: 1/120th
  • Focal Length: 4mm

My favorite things don’t happen from plans or accidents, but somewhere beautiful in-between, where some thought and some sound and some image slide into each other’s arms and caress one another, like your first slow dance introducing all you’ve ever wanted to all that you have, a nervous “Hi, hello, how are you, good, and you?” that entwines the fingers of promise and problem, desire and apprehension, a reassuring shoulder and a fist in one’s stomach, a gasp and a whimper, a smile and a tear, the first taste of your last chance, the echo you cannot yet hear. 

Belle Fontaine
God bless your Tide pen, for undoing the damage wrought by a tombstone dance with a glass of wine, for blotting out the stain of recklessness on otherwise unblemished threads, restoring a sense of sanctity to this irreverent skin. 
God damn your Tide pen, for stealing my souvenir, for wiping away the blood I so earnestly shed building my temple to the moment, my graceful middle finger in the face of immortality. 
  • Camera: iPhone 5s
  • Aperture: f/2.2
  • Exposure: 1/1325th
  • Focal Length: 4mm

Belle Fontaine

God bless your Tide pen, for undoing the damage wrought by a tombstone dance with a glass of wine, for blotting out the stain of recklessness on otherwise unblemished threads, restoring a sense of sanctity to this irreverent skin. 

God damn your Tide pen, for stealing my souvenir, for wiping away the blood I so earnestly shed building my temple to the moment, my graceful middle finger in the face of immortality. 

A World Without Pens

Michael Lopp:

Look around where you’re sitting right now. Reach for a pen and something to write on. Sign your name and tell me how it feels. How does the pen feel in your hand? Too heavy? Too light? How does the ink land on the paper? Too thin? Too heavy? It’s probably been a long time since you’ve obsessed about a pen, you’ve taken it for granted. Now imagine a world with no pens.

What a fucking nightmare.