"Buy you a drink?"
Salome glances at him, eyes running from toes to sandy blond hair in a moment’s pause.
"I don’t think so. Not tonight."
"Will you be here tomorrow?"
"I’ve read the punch line. You get the kids. What else is there to say?"
My favorite part about buying used books
is finding handwritten notes on the title page. “For my Sarah. Cherish this.” “Reminded me of you.” “With love – John.” If only you knew I got this book for three dollars ….
My second favorite part is finding plane ticket stubs and public transportation passes that I can use for bookmarks.
I bought two volumes of poetry in January that were given (and written in) by the authors. It made me wonder how I would feel if someone gave away a book of my poetry that I had given them with a personal note, and I realized I wouldn’t mind it one bit.
Because that would mean I had published some poetry.
A haiku from the article: ‘Masterpiece,’ an Italian Reality Show for Writers
This blog is so unexpected and whimsical. I’m surprised that no one came up with it sooner, and thrilled that someone came up with it at all.
Anyone else think that Jennifer Lawrence would make a perfect Korra?
Nope. Jennifer Lawrence has already taken one character that was supposed to be a PoC and made her pale and pasty white as modge podge. Don’t get me wrong, I love the Hunger Games and I think Lawrence is the bomb dot com, but she’s white. And Korra is not. It’s one of my favourite things about LoK and casting Lawrence as the lead would completely ruin it, we might as well revisit the live action A:TLA movie, an those were some dark, dark days for the fandom.
Artist’s depiction of the Hindu concept of Atman; Aang and Korra’s Cosmic Selves
In Hindu philosophy, Atman refers to the innermost essence of an individual. It lies beneath and guides all the activities of a person just as Brahman, the Absolute All, underlies the workings of the whole universe.
When Aang encounters his Atman, it is during the act of unlocking his Crown Chakra and relinquishing all worldly attachments.
Korra, however, achieves enlightenment when she connects with the cosmic energy of the universe, and in doing so uncovers the fundamental truth of Atman - it is both part of and identical to Brahman. Thus, she is able to project her Atman into the physical plane of existence, having become a master of time and space.
And this is why I’m writing my next term paper on A:TLA and Korra.
"What makes a few of us so different from others? It’s a question I often ask myself."
Emily Dickinson, from a letter to Austin Dickinson, 21 April 1853 (via litverve)
"According to their survey, men hate when women wear beanies, floppy hats, hair bows, open-side shirts, oversize sweaters, shoulder pads, peplums, bandeau bikinis (“they just make your shoulders look like a linebacker”), bright lipstick, heavy eye makeup, fake nails, bangles, pointy-toed shoes, wedge sneakers, ultra-high heels, fold-over ankle boots (“it looks like the shoes have foreskins”), high-waisted jeans, high-waisted shorts, high-waisted skirts (“it lacks a certain degree of subtlety”), pantsuits (“you’re a woman, not a man”), drop-crotch pants (“really, any loose fitting pants,) and mullet dresses (“I just don’t get it — where’s the fucking party??? You are covering the back!”). The question is how to wear all of these things at once."
The unease in our relationship came much later, I remember. After the parties, after the kisses, after the many times she told me she loved me and the many times she tried to take it back, after the awkward, fumbling after school sex we had in that narrow window of time between the bus dropping us off on her stoop and the moment her father’s key turned in the lock at the back-door.
Later, much later, she tried to tell me she had never wanted any of it. I believed her, believed her for years. I watched her date a boy on the football team, not the quarterback, but still, a football player, and I believed her. I watched her graduate valedictorian, and listened to her small town, lets get out of here speech reminisce on all the joys of high school without mentioning me once and I believed her. We went our separate ways to college, her to state and I to Brown without saying even a simple goodbye (although Lord knows I wanted to) and I believed her. I believed her the whole bloody time, until she invited me to her wedding and told me, drunk and teary eyed, tucked behind a bower in the hall far from the prying eyes of her husband and her mother-in-law, that she would have stayed with me, if I had asked. If only I had asked.
But when we were young things were different. We were children, really, but very close to being adults. When it ended it was suddenly, smashed glasses on my parents’ kitchen floor and words that cut like shards of clay and could never be taken back. She tried to insinuate that I had been the cause of everything, of the collapse of our friendship, her parents’ divorce, her drinking problems. She had always been a story teller. That day she spun her best work of fiction, a fabrication that dictated the motions of our respective lives for years to follow, insinuating that I was the master planner, the manipulator, that between the two of us it was I who had woven reality, twisting it within my grasp until all my dreams had come true.
She was lying of course, but when she suggested I had abused her, had guilted her into every advance of our love affair, I believed her. I hung my head in shame, I thought myself wicked, never imagining it was she who had mapped and plotted every step of our tale, a master at work, directing the most elaborate circus of events. She was always in charge, from the start of our friendship onwards. It was she that was mischievous, with a wink and a smirk, playing pranks, climbing buildings, breaking rules. We were two sides of the same coin, Louise and I, the the bold and I the ever-bashful. At her command I would have run away from home, robbed a bank, conquered an empire. Louise dreamed and I enacted, a jester tumbling after a princess. She spoke and I listened. She leaped and I jumper after.
She told me our relationship had been my plot, my gambit, my hopes fulfilled. But she took and I gave. I didn’t see it then, but I was her puppet, her training wheels, both an easy first and a springboard platform into the wider, more dangerous world of relationships and lovemaking. Louise got what she wanted, all the raw and banal physicality of it. In the end, I enjoyed it, but it was me, not her after all, that was left with the dirty end of the stick. She ate her full, and I was left, waiting and empty, bewildered and still expecting the depth of a love I hadn’t got.
But as I said, it was bliss. The unease came later. At that time it was, as it had been from the first, wondrous.
We met in the fourth grade. She was the new girl, I the kid no one had the chance to warn her away from yet. She tumbled over, long legs and spindly arms, ragtop strawberry blonde hair and wide brown eyes to where I was sitting, nose in a book.
I didn’t look up, but I watched her, furtive eyes peeking out from under my lashes.
She was undeterrable.
"I’m Louise. Louise Francis Margaret Halden. We’re in the same class. I think. I’m from Torannuh, in Ontario, but my dad moved us out here to Medicine Hat cause he works for this big company, and so I had ta switch schools. And come here, even though I don’t know anybody here. Want to be my friend? Watcha reading?"
I opened my mouth to say I was Sam, we were in the same class, I’d seen her introduced that morning, and I knew where Toronto was, thank you very much. I wouldn’t be much of a friend, and I’d lost the dust cover for my book that morning and couldn’t find it anywhere. I think it was The Hobbit, but I can’t remember now, to be honest. Before I could force those few sentences from my brain out onto my tongue Louise jumped back in.
“Oh, but most people call me Lou, so you can call me Lou, but not LuLu, that sounds like a dog’s name, you know, the kind of oversized poodles that grannies torture with the most absurd trims and hideous sweaters. And not Louise, because that’s my grandmothers name, I was called it after her. And never call me Louise Francis Margaret Halden, because that’s what my mother yells when I’ve done something wrong and she’s only just found out. Just call me Lou.” She paused. “Well, that’s my name, Lou, now you’re supposed to tell me you’re glad to meet me, aren’t you? And I told you my name, aren’t you gonna tell me yours?”
What’s The Difference Between Regular and Decaf Coffee?
i found this inappropriately hilarious and i want one.
LOL OH MY FUCKING GOD
"Do not confuse one story for all stories."
This wonderful infographic is from Ryoko Iwata at I Love Coffee
FML the link thing-y doesn’t seem to be working.
And FML the .png file won’t show in full size on tumblr.
WHY CAN’T I INTERNET TODAY?!?!?!?!?
…For full size click image or here: http://en.ilovecoffee.jp/posts/view/79
She’s amazing. Seriously. Go check her other stuff out.
Legend of Korra
Book 3 Details
my body is ready.