pura vida.

jhnmyr: Photo by Danny Clinch

Sun, 28 Aug 2011 23:25:42 -0400

jhnmyr:

Photo by Danny Clinch

“I cannot live without books.” -TJ Thomas Jefferson’s...

Thu, 11 Aug 2011 15:43:00 -0400

“I cannot live without books.” -TJ

Thomas Jefferson’s personal collection, Library of Congress.

7/23/2011 Washington, DC “People of color.” Ironic, I...

Thu, 11 Aug 2011 15:36:00 -0400

7/23/2011 Washington, DC

“People of color.”

Ironic, I am reading Invisible Man the week that I visit a city with more unlike faces, more blended communities, more colors than I have yet seen.

[So if the ideal of achieving a true political equality eludes us in reality—as it continues to do—there is still available that fictional vision of an ideal democracy in which the actual combines with the ideal and gives us representations of a state of things in which the highly placed and the lowly, the black and the white, the northerner and the southerner, the native-born and the immigrant are combined to tell us of transcendent truths and possibilities such as those discovered when Mark Twain set Huck and Jim afloat on the raft.]

A person who is not a “people of color” would be a “non colored,” yes? So then the NCLR president, the Latinas across the table, the attractive black man sitting to my right, each would agree that I do not have the right to consider myself, or to check the box that says “people of color,” correct? [nor would I argue their misguidance.] Therefore I am a “non colored.” A person without color? As I say it, as I lower my head in defeat, in shameful acceptance, I am filled with a defiant… what? Jealousy? Urge to defend myself? To compensate?

[A man of two worlds, my pilot felt himself to be misperceived in both and thus was at ease in neither.]

I am white. (I am white?) Am I allowed to relate to this pilot, this black man?

I am drawn to diversity. Of those different from myself. When one wishes to add “diversity” among us, who would be chosen last? Or next to last, just before the white man?

I love color. Everything wants and feels to burst with shades of turquoise, of amber, of gold, emerald, indigo. Of white? I want more color. A permanency. Una mezcla.

[America is woven of many strands. I would recognise them and let it so remain. Our fate is to become one, and yet many. This is not prophecy, but description.]

[I am an invisible man. I am a man of substance, of flesh and bone, fiber and liquids - and I might even be said to possess a mind. I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me.]

-Invisible Man, Ralph Ellison

my new room.

Mon, 08 Aug 2011 16:47:22 -0400

my new room.

Yes. I was infatuated with you; I still am. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of...

Fri, 20 May 2011 10:37:51 -0400

Yes. I was infatuated with you; I still am. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. I cut you out because I couldn’t stand being a passing fancy. Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren’t having any of those.

Photo

Tue, 17 May 2011 15:49:50 -0400

Photo

Tue, 17 May 2011 15:41:05 -0400

Human beings are funny. They long to be with the person they love but refuse to admit it openly....

Tue, 17 May 2011 15:37:32 -0400

Human beings are funny. They long to be with the person they love but refuse to admit it openly. Some are afraid to show even the slightest sign of affection because of fear. Fear that their feelings may not be recognized, or even worse, returned. But one thing about human beings that puzzles me the most is their conscious effort to be connected with the object of their affection even if it kills them slowly within.

Photo

Tue, 17 May 2011 15:18:32 -0400

books are real

Tue, 26 Apr 2011 18:11:03 -0400

books are real

on being real.

Tue, 26 Apr 2011 17:33:00 -0400

“What is REAL?” asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. “Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?”
“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but Really loves you, then you become Real.”
“Does it hurt?” asked the Rabbit.
“Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.”
“Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,” he asked, “or bit by bit?”
“It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse. “You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get all loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”

Such a beautiful song. Such a shame when talent like this is cut...

Mon, 10 Jan 2011 00:52:50 -0500

Such a beautiful song. Such a shame when talent like this is cut so short.

glass: Keep being AWESOME!A passive aggressive note from the...

Thu, 18 Nov 2010 20:56:17 -0500

glass:

Keep being AWESOME!
A passive aggressive note from the carnivores to the vegans. (via Joe)

“Success isn’t a result of spontaneous combustion....

Thu, 11 Nov 2010 23:34:27 -0500

“Success isn’t a result of spontaneous combustion. You must set yourself on fire.” Arnold Glasow

Mute Math’s been on my radar lately. Love this one.

Thu, 28 Oct 2010 18:20:46 -0400

Mute Math’s been on my radar lately. Love this one.

“Life is like a box of crayons. Most people are the 8-color...

Sat, 25 Sep 2010 19:53:37 -0400

“Life is like a box of crayons. Most people are the 8-color boxes, but what you’re really looking for are the 64-color boxes with the sharpeners on the back. I fancy myself to be a 64-color box, though I’ve got a few missing. It’s ok though, because I’ve got some more vibrant colors like periwinkle at my disposal. I have a bit of a problem though in that I can only meet the 8-color boxes. Does anyone else have that problem? I mean there are so many different colors of life, of feeling, of articulation.. so when I meet someone who’s an 8-color type.. I’m like, “Hey girl, magenta!” and she’s like, “Oh, you mean purple!” and she goes off on her purple thing, and I’m like, “No - I want magenta!” -John Mayer

I want emerald and sapphire, with a splash amber.

they can't help it.

Sat, 25 Sep 2010 19:28:00 -0400

They always lean in for the kiss. Don’t fall, pobrecitos.

"When I put everything in order, that is my disorder."

Thu, 16 Sep 2010 22:08:00 -0400

“When I put everything in order, that is my disorder.”

the honeymoon's over.

Thu, 16 Sep 2010 22:06:00 -0400

They say that when you live in a foreign country for a long period of time, you go through a wave of emotions. When you first arrive, everything is new. The faces, the food, the language—everything. Gallo pinto es ricisimo. The pink and turquoise and copper tin roofs are an inspiring change from the familiar suburbs of Tennessee. The sweet smell of afternoon rain is as refreshing as it is soothing. Latin lovers whisper in your ear, and translation is lost in the rolling of a tongue. As the weeks go by, things begin to change.

As things change, they stay the same.

The same rice and beans for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The same littered streets, overflowing with homeless men and perritos raditos. The same streets, rummaged by children urinating on the sidewalk as we pass by in the mornings. There is a new smell—one that makes my eyes water. I breathe through by nose and try not to swallow the taste, like something burning. Tire or lard or rotting animal. Or all three. We stop at the intersection where the prostitute stands every morning. She carries a card that declares her a legal working woman. Today she is wearing a red tank top, revealing her naked ribs and bloated stomach, with red heels to match. It’s gonna be a good day. The sky bursts open just as schools get out and restaurants close. Every day it waits to rein fury upon those who left their umbrellas at home. Rookies. Every day, right on time.

The conversation becomes clearer. The whispering man no longer speaks of the stars and of love, but of deception and of hunger. They explain the smell as we pass by the cemetery, after the hurricane that swallowed all of those bodies. They explain the smell, and I understand.The endless landscape is surrounded by chipped paint and barbed-wire, and I’m stuck at home on a Friday night.

With September 11th two days away, I feel a mix of...

Fri, 10 Sep 2010 01:57:00 -0400

With September 11th two days away, I feel a mix of emotions. I can’t help but look at my own country with a mix of pride and shame.