After two and a half months of making my last paycheck stretch as long as I could, I'm down to ten dollars in the bank and a five in my pocket. So it goes. Pretty sure that's the longest I've ever managed to save though.
Finally got to have my lunch with Doc today The one scheduled last week was cancelled when the dust from renovations in his building triggered his asthma. I've been dying to use my gift card to Mimi's Cafe since Christmas, and finally got to, and fulfilled the promise I made to him; when I get a job, I'll treat you to lunch. Swapped some books as late Christmas gifts, and sat down for about an hour and a half just chatting about lit. He's pushing me towards some experimental writers to go with the experimental writing projects I've been playing with, and he's teaching some classes in the fall that I'd really like to sit in on. Given how my job prospects have been going, I'm sure I'll be able to manage it
Other stuff I've been doing includes trying to get Russ to help me make Valentine's Day cards. He made one and left. So I decided I would make some and get him to sign his name or something, but he wasn't having that either. I guess no one will be getting a card from little man
I'm also trying to get back into reading more. At the moment, I'm most of the way done with my second Agatha Christie in as many days, and will probably start on one of the books Doc gave me next. Probably the book of essays from David Foster Wallace - I've heard good things about him. Also on my list is Murakami, House of Leaves, and The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt (none of which I found in my local library), and an assortment of adolescent novels I've picked up recently from a secondhand bookstore.
StyleOverSubstance has Round Six covered, and will begin on February 1st! We already have a few of the Round Seven slots filled, so get your pieces in!
DailyLitRecognition still needs that prose and poetry!
The Mentorship Project Is Back!
CRLiterature wants you on their admin team: Do You Have What It Takes?
he sips a steaming cup
watching from its edge
as I cut pears in two
Cold morning, Hot tea by jade-pandora
LavenderThere's a beggar who sits at the corner of the street where I pass everyday. She's old and wrinkled, and a little child usually sits on her lap and calls her grandma. It's freezing this winter, but she's always in this long worn out, crimson gown and a thin head cover, sometimes a knitted, old jacket, but the child wears a pink coat that looks kinda warm.
Everyday this woman and child sit through hours of people walking by begging for some money to buy some food.
The child is barely four.
the woman is possibly sixty, yet she has enough reasons to make the little child laugh, every single day.
they told me no one could love a girl with scars.i told them that i could love myself.
the difference between poets and practical mena practical man
feels rain and hurries indoors.
a poet gives pause
to see waves surging throughout
oceans in every raindrop.
my mother and father found me in a pile of newspapers
hidden amongst language i would someday claim,
or perhaps, stuck in the throat of a hummingbird,
unsure if it was my job to help it fly.
there is not much to say about the hummingbird:
only that its feathers are soft, its chest resembles
an idle car or a machine meant to tick much quicker
than a human heart.
i am the ash of a burning bush, maybe even God’s face
staring out from it, although i wouldn’t go so far as to call
myself holy, because Lord knows i treat his name like any
other word and i never learned how to be someone’s child.
men rarely realize their hands until they cut them off.
daughters rarely realize their mistakes until their
parents stop reading the newspaper.
couragethe day I realised
I may never taste your mouth again,
I threw myself
into the first cigarette I could find,
sputtering through the smoke
and greedily inhaling my death wish.
today, my hands smell like nicotine
and lighter fluid ;
and I wonder if you were aching
you would still let them hold you.
isn’t always sacrifice -
sometimes it’s just alcohol,
or far too much loneliness,
or far too little.
I could have loved you forever,
if you’d been brave enough to let me.
november nights“Do you want anything?” Sleep coated his brusque British accent. He traipsed calloused, double-jointed fingers through his raven knotted hair. The autumn breeze drifted through the cracked car window, brushing strands across his broad forehead. Diesel drifted into my nostrils, and the afternoon heat of black tar highways lingered in the musk of the leather car. The neon gas station light flickered with a humming buzz-pop of electric static. A lone figured lingered in front of the red and blue open sign and an advertisement for draft liquor, puffing cigarette smoke from his lungs. The rush of the highway muffled the deadened silence, providing a comfortable background noise.
“Nah, I’m good,” I said, tossing a sleepy smile to the passenger seat. The seatbelt clicked, and he leaned against the car door.
“Wait,” I said. The lights from the store cast a shadow across his jawbone, but his eyes illuminated a soft brown hue in the darkness. “If f