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mimsy borogoves

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(no subject) [Sep. 2nd, 2009|11:15 pm]
mimsy borogoves
Everything is more complicated than you think. You only see a tenth of what is true. There are a million little strings attached to every choice you make; you can destroy your life every time you choose. But maybe you won’t know for twenty years. And you’ll never ever trace it to its source. And you only get one chance to play it out. Just try and figure out your own divorce. And they say there is no fate, but there is: it’s what you create. Even though the world goes on for eons and eons, you are here for a fraction of a fraction of a second. Most of your time is spent being dead or not yet born. But while alive, you wait in vain, wasting years, for a phone call or a letter or a look from someone or something to make it all right. And it never comes or it seems to but doesn’t really. And so you spend your time in vague regret or vaguer hope for something good to come along. Something to make you feel connected, to make you feel whole, to make you feel loved. And the truth is I’m so angry and the truth is I’m so fucking sad, and the truth is I’ve been so fucking hurt for so fucking long and for just as long have been pretending I’m OK, just to get along, just for, I don’t know why, maybe because no one wants to hear about my misery, because they have their own, and their own is too overwhelming to allow them to listen to or care about mine. Well, fuck everybody. Amen.

-The Minister in Synecdoche, New York (Charlie Kaufmann)

also: I got a lil' tumblr

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the hour, irrevocable [Mar. 8th, 2009|08:13 pm]
mimsy borogoves
There was the smell of jam and sadness.

In our family runs the thread of melancholy and dark humor. Of seeing to the bone of things, of not averting our gaze. I am only tempered by the joviality of my father's side, where conversation is a defense against loneliness. Jove, Saturn.

In the kitchen, I am 27. My mother is 55. There is a quilt of autographs, put together by my grandmother over the course of ten years. She died when my mother was 28, I was 1. A loss that never lessened over time for my mother, a loss that terrifies me, because it runs in my veins, and I will inherit it when I lose my mother someday. I've watched my mother carry that loss for 27 years, strapped to her back like a fifty pound rock, with nowhere to put it down. My grandmother's death runs through our family like a scar, it's a look I can recognize in everyone's eyes, the look of being cheated, of something sudden and abrupt; irrevocable. It makes our blue eyes turn to flint, brighten and deflect. The quilt: A meticulousness I did not inherit, the ability to see things through. A scrap of torn yellowed paper falls to the floor from other scraps of paper. On it, typewritten:

Dear Somebboddy,

Do you now what it is like to be a nobbody?



p.s. I foundd your address in the phone book.

Something comes over my mother's face, some previously unwitnessed mixture of pain and hilarity. 'I wrote that,' she says. 'I must have been about 12. I stuck it in our mailbox and your grandfather must have saved it.' I hug her. I think of my mother at 12, all freckles and flaming hair and sad intensity. I think of how, after years of civil war, we are so incredibly alike. That we are a family of somebodies who think that we are nobodies.  My mother is retired, after years of rising to the top of a field run mainly by men with ivy league diplomas hanging in their corner offices. She has no college degree. She is brilliant, beloved, feared. Two years ago I turned over the bottom of a dog biscuit jar she had made in a ceramics class. Painted on the bottom were the words, 'you are good enough.'

Mostly I am terrified of time, of what it can do, and can't undo.

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Sentimental Mathematics [Mar. 5th, 2009|06:41 pm]
mimsy borogoves
Image Hosted by ImageShack.us
via osculations 

Around this time, Pelletier and Espinoza, worried about the current state of their mutual lover, had two long conversations on the phone. The first conversation began awkwardly, although Espinoza had been expecting Pelletier's call, as if both men found it difficult to say what sooner or later they would have to say. The first twenty minutes were tragic in tone, with the word fate used ten times and the word friendship twenty-four times. Liz Norton's name was spoken fifty times, nine of them in vain. The word Paris was said seven times, Madrid, eight. The word love was spoken twice, once by each man. The word horror was spoken six times and the word happiness once (by Espinoza). The word solution was said twelve times. The word solipsism once (Pelletier). The word euphemism ten times. The word category, in the singular and plural, nine times. The word structuralism once (Pelletier). The term American literature three times. The word dinner or eating or breakfast or sandwich nineteen times. The word eyes or hands or hair fourteen times. Then the conversation proceeded more smoothly. Pelletier told Espinoza a joke in German and Espinoza laughed. In fact, they both laughed, wrapped up in the waves of whatever it was that linked their voices and ears across the dark fields and the windows and the snow of the Pyrenees and the rivers and lonely roads and the separate and interminable suburbs surrounding Paris and Madrid.

-Roberto Bolano, 2666

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Hello [Nov. 18th, 2008|09:14 pm]
mimsy borogoves
This journal has seen better days. I'm not sure who reads it anymore, and I'd like to be all dramatic and claim that it's haunted by the past, but, you know, it's the internet, that's silly. But it is true that I don't like to come here much anymore, and I don't know what to write or how to write it. I'm going to keep it, mainly as a placeholder for art and books and creative writing. But I'd like to have another space, a space that I feel comfortable to write about the everyday indulgent dribblings of my life. Everything in this journal from here on out will mostly be public, everything in the new journal will mostly be private.

That place will be of_fevers. Add it if you like! I won't be offended if you don't. Promise.
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(no subject) [Nov. 6th, 2008|10:47 pm]
mimsy borogoves
Some sort of prolonged reverie; the sort of quiet, ominous sublime that hovers over a David Lynch film. Five hour sunsets, deep waters, disappearing. Friends; fiercely. I couldn't breathe, literally. What does that mean? Cold tile and the sort of pain that made me see colors for which there are no names. Insignificant, invisible. Longing, a conjuring of your face.


The days blend, and running is my only signpost. Drive, voices, teach, read, read, drive, listen, write, drive, read, escape, sleep, rinse, repeat. But then: once a day, I run, and each day it is different. There is no pre-determined route, I just. run. Up hills. Down hills. Back and forth underneath sweet olive trees. I think sometimes it might be nice to have someone to run with. Sometimes not, sometimes it is the aloneness that is intoxicating. Invisible.

I'm ready.



What's missing? Some days my voice comes through from so far away. I'm scared that this is what it means to grow up.

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After Great Pain, A Formal Feeling [Sep. 29th, 2008|08:37 pm]
mimsy borogoves
Last night found me curled up with Favorites on a blanket under a tiny grove of fogged-in redwood trees, listening to Will Oldham sing with a guitar, kazoo (now mine!) and friend.

We showed up to the Library 'round 3, which lies across the road from the edge of the continent, in Big Sur. We settled on our blankets in front of the tiny stage and placed our beard bets (my bet: no beard, mustache only. Steve: 'I bet his beard will be made of bees!'). I bought a book called 'A Brief History of Infinity.' After I bit I saw him sneak in, in a train conductor hat and a beard of epic proportions.

Alela Diane played, she was lovely, she sang about tatted lace and the Civil War. Sort of like if Joanna Newsom was part of the Decemberists. Here is a song from her:

My Tired Feet

She made me want to move to Nevada City straightaway, to own a dog and a garden and walk the train tracks and swim in the river every day. Sometimes in the city I forget how much I crave the simple, the quiet.

And then, Will. For those that don't know, Will is one of my top three obsessions. The others being New Orleans and books. Curiously, Will Oldham is from the south and named his last album after an Emily Dickinson poem (which I was dying to ask him about, alas...) Coincidence? Either way, he Gets It.

So, the show. It's like he knew I was coming, because he:
-talked about R. Kelly at length
-defined bromance
-played a kazoo
-put on lipstick to play the girl singing part
-played a round of existential 'would you rather?'
-played my favorite song (which, with his extremely large canon, was surprising), and played it beautifully
-told us that his favorite moment in the history of playing music happened at the Library, singing with Dawn McCarthy under a full moon
-tossed me the kazoo, which is engraved in gold with:

Property of Bonnie Prince Billy.

I sort of think we are soul mates.

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