Joan Didion, Play It as It Lays (review here)
When we attempted fire we were stubbornin carparks making amends with our rings on our tongues out I could tell you how I got here but I am instead intenton telling you how I am planning to leave the fire is onlyone way out when we attempted earth we failedthe landscape held my heel like a moor victim until I heard onlya lecture about how you were the victim how your motherburned…
Jorie Graham, “The Guardian Angel of the Private Life”
Salvador Dalí, Sketch of Sigmund Freud, 1938
Richard Siken, Crush
So... Lately I’m not really here or on Twitter anymore, but you can find me on Goodreads. I’m not reviewing much on there, but feel free to follow me if you like, if only to see what I’m reading these days.
Caravaggio, The Supper at Emmaus (1601), detail
Wallace Stevens, from “Theory”
Jane Hirshfield, from “A Hand”
Édouard Boubat, Jardin Zen, Kyoto, Japan, 1975
Philip Larkin, from “Home Is So Sad” (w/ thanks to @lydiakiesling’s The Golden State)
Madame Nielsen, The Endless Summer
for A.
we send them both off bare-chested into the den to plug in their machines and watch the images on screens morph into shapes they assume for the duration of the spell in Guadalajara the trees bloom and then wilt spent spine curved like a question mark I send you messages while they are occupied that sound like branches snapping or me lapping up your saliva when he is next to me the…
Margaret Atwood, from The Journals of Susanna Moodie
Andrei Tarkovsky, Nostalgia (1983)
Henry James, from “Madame de Mauves”
Emily Dickinson, from a letter to Kate Anthon, n.d. 1861
