“The yard is full of hard rubbish it’s a mess and I guess the neighbors must think we run a meth lab”

music songs: avant gardener – courtney barnett,  berlin – shmemel, charlie – colin meloy, river on your right- tylan/ingrid elizabeth, london – she and him, i wish i was the moon- neko case, i follow rivers – lykke li, old college try – the mountain goats

hollowware

music songs: soko, you have a power on me; frightened rabbit, the woodpile; the nields, if this were a movie; jenny lewis, silver lining; bahamas, lost in the light; annie rossi, land majestic; family of the year, hero.

In the house where I am, there are three cats and a puppy and a spoon from a trip on El-Al. They are quality spoons, enduring spoons, spoons I always want to steal, but fear that my intention to pilfer will make the plane crash, like it’s only me and my questionable morals in relation to silverware that are keeping us in the air.

secret

music songs: sway, bic runga; failure, laura marling; acid tongue, jenny lewis; when I’m at your house, loudon wainwright; a quiet line, lucy wainwright roche/mary chapin carpenter; went to my woman; julia weldon

It was raining so hard a minute ago that they had to close the door that leads to the backyard of the coffee shop, where you can sit at the picnic table and see the sky and smell someone making hamburgers. Now it’s over, but it was thrilling while it lasted. I love rain. Rain is relief.

I am still mad at some people for things they did years ago. I feel okay about that. They’re probably mad about things I did. I don’t even believe in getting over everything.

Last night/early this morning, while spelunking the internet, I found the most beautiful hashtag there ever was. It’s so good that I’m keeping it all to myself and not even telling you about it.

 

music songs

I’m very into BitchTapes right now. Nocturnal Pop helped me fall asleep, finally, at 530 this morning.

colder snap

Song times: Neighbor Song, Aunt Martha; Dreams, The Cranberries; Seek and Hide, Lucy Wainwright Roche; Chelsea Hotel No. 2, Lana Del Ray; Cowboy Singer, Lucy Kaplansky; Everyday is like Sunday, Colin Meloy

december twenty eighth

songs: chelsea hotel no. 2, lana del ray; let’s get out of this country, camera obscura; tired, lily and madeline; dreams, the cranberries; seek and hide, lucy wainwright roche.

(teenage girl waiting for train, Chicago, 1960)

I’ve been on this train since 11.30 this morning and it’s 4.30 now. I have two seats and two tray tables to myself, and it feels like mad luxury. There is coffee and leg room and out the window, snow on the ground and tall trees and mountains. Brooklyn is far away. Behind me, there is a girl with very neatly cut hair and a red sweater. Something about her makes me certain that she spends her time climbing hills.

“If I could make the world as pure/and strange as what I see/I’d put you in a mirror/ I’d put in front of me” (lou reed)

(kate miss)

le songs: chelsea hotel number 2, lana del ray (leonard cohen cover); fuck this place, frightened rabbit; i should live in salt, the national; I-35, lucy wainwright roche; all the umbrellas in london, the magnetic fields; pale blue eyes, lou reed; deep red bells, neko

I am probably one soup away from starting a really boring food blog. I find something, I make it, I write it down, I eat it, I feel like I’ve accomplished something. I don’t even know if it’s about the food I’m making so much as it’s like, look, I did a thing. It’s not words, I know it’s not words, but it’s still a thing.

 

“laugh lines on our faces, scale maps of the ocean floor” (the mountain goats)

(wednesday: train song, feist and ben gibbard; landfill, daughter; turn on me, the shins; a record year for rainfall, the decemberists; clark gable, the postal service; human like a house, the finches; wasp’s nest, the national; wrecking ball, gillian welch.)

(Jalopy, Brooklyn. Photo by me)

lovely: the barista who, when a song by The Decemberists came on just now, said, “Oh, man, the sound of this guy’s voice makes me so happy.” the long walk I took to get here. coffee, always coffee. the freedom that comes with knowing that I never want to have a kid. carrot soup. the temperature. the guy sitting beside me right now with three yellow pads, covered in small black handwriting, and a worn copy of Antony and Cleopatra.

“I had a secret meeting in the basement of my brain” (the national)

songs: the last time, lucy wainwright roche; wrecking ball, gillian welch; international small arms traffic blues, the mountain goats; over the rhine, tylan; over and over again (lost and found), clap your hands say yeah; mercury news, lucy wainwright roche

("Waiting")

quiet morning at the clinic, the usual suspects prayed and left, which made me nervous. I guess they have things to do besides torturing women who need health care, but it’s hard to remember that.

on Friday, I lost ten dollars, but I have no idea how.

five dollar copy of Chekhov stories at the Strand. If you are prone to crowded place induced panic attacks, the strategy has to be get in, find what you need, don’t look at anything else, and get out, like it’s the grocery store.

“Basically I’m going to write this big, and hopefully beautiful mess and then we’ll see how it all plays out when I’m done.” Jami Attenberg

 

(Juice Pedaler garden. My photo)

today songs: rockin’ rockin’ pet store, the mountain goats; daddy’s little girl, the nields; bitter glass, tylan; it’s gonna rain, the violent femmes; make it up, the blow; rome, phoenix; tiny vessels, death cab for cutie; don’t shoot me santa, the killers