tragic & depressing stories

It's thanksgiving week y'all & while others are planning huge feasts or buying outrageously expensive plane tickets back home I am organizing my movie collection and way over-thinking season one of The Walking Dead (I just started watching). If that's not tragic then I don't know what is!

Perhaps I'll have a diet dr pepper chug-a-thon while watching all six versions of Pride & Prejudice currently in my DVD collection... that sounds like a good day.

(but seriously, the plan is vegan soul food in the village & lots o laughs... there probably will be a lot of diet dr pepper involved though).

N

Poetry Is a Destructive Force

That's what misery is,

Nothing to have at heart. 

It is to have or nothing. 

It is a thing to have, 

A lion, an ox in his breast, 

To feel it breathing there.

Corazon, stout dog, 

Young ox, bow-legged bear, 

He tastes its blood, not spit. 

He is like a man 

In the body of a violent beast. 

Its muscles are his own . . .

The lion sleeps in the sun. 

Its nose is on its paws. 

It can kill a man.

-wallace stevens. 

i found this self portrait today... 

taken in bushwick brooklyn in 2009. 

Digits

elections

via my tumblr

after the wind

Yesterday I decided to take a (brisk) walk through Prospect Park on my way to the Community Bookstore in Park Slope. I needed Susan Howe's book, My Emily Dickinson, in order to maintain my sanity. The park has been largely cleaned up since the storm (semi-unfortunately, I love disaster tours) but there were still down trees and a general leaf-mess everywhere. I managed to snag some good video footage, which I'm working on turning into a video piece of some kind... my ambitions in video art are far ahead of my editing abilities (as anyone who's seen my vimeo knows), but I needed a break from regular writing (between MFA thesis, my own little endeavors, and explorations in freelancing, I'm permeated with words of late).

Selections from after the storm:

midnight ritual