Anti-joke popsicles
(via ccchiquita)
Everyone in my house is already asleep by the time I get home from work each night. Most nights, only two lights are left on for me—the lantern affixed to the outside of the house (what I like to refer to as, “the beacon of hope”) and the dim light above the kitchen counter. Every night I stand in the kitchen, backpack still on, drinking a glass of water, or chewing on anything sweet I’ve found lying around. And every night, once I’ve finished, I turn off the light and walk up the steps to my room, feeling like I’m on Mars, or some such uninhabitable place.
I could go on like this forever, but would I ever find a place that was meant for me?
— Haruki Murakami - Pinball, 1973 (via murakamistuff)
(via sunflowl)
Short stories are truly my passion—both the reading, and writing of them. To me there is nothing quite like reading a short story collection, cover to cover. For me, a collection of stories is more telling than a novel could ever be. Sometimes the stories follow a common thread, and sometimes they are random and completely unconnected, but I find that short story collections ALWAYS lend a greater understanding to the human condition.
That being said, I’ve been meaning to read more female authors. I came across one of Nelson’s short stories in one of the O’Henry short story awards collections and was so blown away I knew I needed to read more. Female writers are so often overlooked, but I’ve found that they lend a perspective men just can’t achieve, whether they are writing about women or men.
It’s just occurred to me that I never blog about the books that I’m reading. And this is odd because reading is, and has always been, one of the most integral parts of my being.
For those of you who don’t know, I studied English Literature and Creative Writing undergrad, and come the fall, I’ll be returning to school at Rutgers University to pursue a masters in Creative Writing and to teach English Composition to Freshman.
I’m also currently building my library and have been collecting books for as long as I can remember. I have two bookshelves filled and not enough room for a third (really, I don’t even have enough room for a second.)
Anyway I just finished reading Don Delilo’s White Noise.
The sky was pink, and thick like honey
I know I haven’t met you,
per se,
but I dreamt about you
last night.
You had on that dress
that I’ve imagined you
might wear,
and your eyes
did that thing
I’ve so often pictured them doing
when you laugh too hard
to breathe.
I hope you don’t mind
my saying,
but you were stunning,
like electricity.
And when I woke up,
the sky was pink, and thick
like honey. The coldest running
water couldn’t quench my thirst.
