The two worlds
The two worlds
One is rain, mournful
strings,
the dizzying
height
of the ceiling.
You walk around
in crazy circles
for what must be miles.
You sweat through everything
and you always have to pee.
But like
what are you going to do.
The other one
is a desperate lake.
Its algae hovers behind my eyes
my breath, my kin.
The swans
are an illusion. Teenagers
kissing
hard
on carnival rides.
To fall asleep lately, I've been listening to a BBC podcast called "In Our Time," in which the host--the placid, grandfatherly voiced Melvyn Bragg--engages various scholars and academics in discussions of popular history, science, the humanities, and other general curiosities. Subjects include the 30 Years War,
Picking up the pieces on a rainy Wednesday. I found myself listening to the experimental band The Books the other day, and watched a short documentary about their process. An animating preoccupation that drove the music was conversation—the idea that any juxtaposition is really a discourse. You put one
I have a tried-and-true method for pursuing things that require some willpower: Start early, and don't anticipate. When I started running consistently, it was late fall. The holidays were right around the corner, and with them the new year, which was an obvious time to adopt a new
I recently finished Tell Me Everything, by Elizabeth Strout, a novel that follows episodes in the middle aged lives of characters in Strout's fictional town of Crosby, Maine. I didn't really like the book that much, but I'd say what I found a bit