Alphabete Noire

If you don't try, you can't fail

0 notes

it’s such a lovely feeling
not really something to see
i’m floating up to the ceiling
on vacation
from me

it’s such a lovely feeling
not really something to see
i’m floating up to the ceiling
on vacation
from me

11 notes

Dartmouth Strikes Again

thetinhouse:

We come to know we will die and that our particular deaths remain mysterious. When and how will we die? How much will we suffer? How much will those around us suffer? What will the moment be like when we stop breathing? And what happens afterwards? The latter two questions we cannot fathom the…

0 notes

Since childhood Ann had battled waves of obscurely caused distemper—a pettishness, a sense of unjust confinement, a nagging disorientation sometimes severe enough to keep her in bed. The reality around her, like a bread lacking the ingredient needed to make it rise, did not seem real enough, though other people appeared to be fully, even passionately engaged in its show of reward and punishment, failure and success.
John Updike, Memories of the Ford Administration

0 notes

Jean Georges Vongerichten breezed over to our table at Spice Market yesterday to ask how we were enjoying our lunch. He was so well-groomed and charming I forgot to ask why he forces his waitresses to wear backless orange smocks. They are all gracious and graceful, but it’s hard for anyone to look good in that. The lunch staff was also a little wobbly with the rehearsed admonishment that Spice Market serves Vietnamese “street” food, “so the dishes will come out in the order they are prepared.” My mother didn’t quite get it, and said, “OK, can you bring the dumplings first?” so the woman had to say the whole thing again. In the end, things proceeded as normal, though my Tuna burger came well before my mother’s pad thai. But as long as dessert doesn’t roll out before dinner, who cares?
The place is the size of a small airport, and it was nearly empty, which always calms me down. My mojito was mostly rum, which, ditto.

Jean Georges Vongerichten breezed over to our table at Spice Market yesterday to ask how we were enjoying our lunch. He was so well-groomed and charming I forgot to ask why he forces his waitresses to wear backless orange smocks. They are all gracious and graceful, but it’s hard for anyone to look good in that. The lunch staff was also a little wobbly with the rehearsed admonishment that Spice Market serves Vietnamese “street” food, “so the dishes will come out in the order they are prepared.” My mother didn’t quite get it, and said, “OK, can you bring the dumplings first?” so the woman had to say the whole thing again. In the end, things proceeded as normal, though my Tuna burger came well before my mother’s pad thai. But as long as dessert doesn’t roll out before dinner, who cares?

The place is the size of a small airport, and it was nearly empty, which always calms me down. My mojito was mostly rum, which, ditto.

0 notes

just one of those things

i weighed myself this morning
i was less than a star
but more than smoke
out for a run i
marked my distance by taking out my veins
and spooling them along the park drive
i laughed out loud
feeling daffy not to be tyrannized by blood
i can’t recommend it though
feeding them back in later at home
was dismaying, like when
the drawstring on your sweatpants 
comes out in the wash

you hope a run will mellow you out but
i still wanted a drink
to make it more urbane than alcoholic
i got out my barman’s book
Cocktails Dread Mixed
and spent an hour with it
finally settling on “Dad’s Secret Family”
recipe to wit,
2 parts Bourbon or Rye
1 splash of soda
1 sprig of wormwood
1 cube of sucre de Montserrat
3 Narwahl tears
a twist
i put on some Billie and leaned an elbow on the mantle
nodding at my smug reflection
"good morning, hearth ape," he said aloud
but my mouth hadn’t moved—i’d been sipping just then
i turned away and paced
cool as peppermint across the carpet
hoping it was a hallucination
just one of those things

just one of those things

i weighed myself this morning

i was less than a star

but more than smoke

out for a run i

marked my distance by taking out my veins

and spooling them along the park drive

i laughed out loud

feeling daffy not to be tyrannized by blood

i can’t recommend it though

feeding them back in later at home

was dismaying, like when

the drawstring on your sweatpants 

comes out in the wash

you hope a run will mellow you out but

i still wanted a drink

to make it more urbane than alcoholic

i got out my barman’s book

Cocktails Dread Mixed

and spent an hour with it

finally settling on “Dad’s Secret Family”

recipe to wit,

2 parts Bourbon or Rye

1 splash of soda

1 sprig of wormwood

1 cube of sucre de Montserrat

3 Narwahl tears

a twist

i put on some Billie and leaned an elbow on the mantle

nodding at my smug reflection

"good morning, hearth ape," he said aloud

but my mouth hadn’t moved—i’d been sipping just then

i turned away and paced

cool as peppermint across the carpet

hoping it was a hallucination

just one of those things

1 note

march

all is quiet
evening leaves with no farewell
and serious night sidles up
cops a feel
st patrick’s day
you forgot to wear green
or even drink
last days of bitter cold
dig fingercicles in
the space between buttons
pinching skin
shaking you by lapels

i am the grave
and all the rung bells
the wages and the word
you are the prayer
nobody heard

march

all is quiet
evening leaves with no farewell
and serious night sidles up
cops a feel
st patrick’s day
you forgot to wear green
or even drink
last days of bitter cold
dig fingercicles in
the space between buttons
pinching skin
shaking you by lapels

i am the grave
and all the rung bells
the wages and the word
you are the prayer
nobody heard