“This one is pretty easy. It was Malia, my 10-year-old daughter’s birthday party. We were in Montana. And you know, she’s a Fourth of July baby. So often times, during this campaign, we’d be traveling during birthdays. And so we were in this small hotel, I think a Holiday Inn. And we had this big public thing. The staff organized for a smaller family party. And we were in this nondescript conference room—with—Malia and Sasha, Michelle, me, my sister, my brother-in-law and my niece. And there was a cake. And there was some food which wasn’t, you know, stellar. And the staff had put together an iPod of all of her favorite music. The Jonas Brothers and Beyoncé. And we spent the evening just dancing. And we were all dancing to their favorite songs. And they were laughing because, you know, obviously their daddy is dancing ridiculous. And Malia came up and said, “This is the best birthday I’ve ever had.” And she meant it. And—and I looked at her and I realized—you know, that she was growing up. And that she was wise, turning out to be somebody who would say that to her dad even if she didn’t mean it, just to make me feel good. And yeah, it chokes me up right now talking about it. Yeah, my kids get to me every time.”—Barack Obama, on the last time he cried. Video at this source. (via scout)
“And if my woman was a fire
She’d burn out before I wake
And be replaced by pints of whiskey
Cigarettes and outer space
Then somebody moves
And everything you thought you had has gone to shit
But we’ve got a lot
Don’t ever forget that”—
margot and the nuclear so and so’s
school ups my appreciation for words exponentially everyday. it is turning me both into a hardended machine, whipping out papers like i am a typerwriter, not the brain behind it, but then, all at once, this sick simultaneous action, i am turning into putty for all this world has to offer, and there are days where it takes real effort to put jeans on and leave my dark basement room, where all i want to do is just read and cry and write about it and read and cry and write about it. sometimes the reading makes me wanna leave the dark basement room, but then it’s clouded with go to class, be the typerwriter.
how do people be english majors successfully? this is a sick fucking joke, really. last week, my british lit professor stressed to us that life is temporary, and passing, and she used the word ethereal. she said this is how poets write, and this is a lot of what they write about. but i heard it in a lecture hall, sitting with my feet flat on a desk that’s anything but comfortable. how do we let those things sit? how do i spend 4 of the most prime years of my life wondering what i’m gonna do with the rest, as the literature-rich, writing-passionate english major i am? what are we supposed to do?
i wrote my very first beginning, middle, end short story last night. it’s not about me, not at all. it’s the first story i have that isn’t creative non-fiction, and it’s about an old man, and fuck, it felt…good. and the feeling i got while doing is just makes me feel like i should do it more, do it all the time, let it drive me fucking crazy.
if i stopped my social life, i would be the best student. there’s that obsessive gene in me that just makes me absorb myself into whatever i’m doing. it’s almost too bad that i’m more passionate about people, about my friends, but when the time’s right, when i’m alone and it is right, it’s me and words, me and words, me and words, in this hazy universe.
this semester i’m in a creative writing class, and all semester I have known that on October 20th i would have to turn in a not first draft, not final draft of a 4,000 word story for class workshop. it’s 4pm, October 19th, and I have 623 words. Ohhh, the day head.
today i covered the wall by my desk in post-it notes of e.e. cummings poetry. when i do things lately, i feel so uninspired. it’s just something i am doing, and that feels grotesque and wrong. i want there to be a spring in everything i do, and it looks as if i am starting with desk work. and maybe next i will dance while i brush my teeth and whistle during bike rides or smile at strangers instead of look at them and wonder if they hate school as much as it seems. maybe i can drink my coffee like a luxury, as the tropical sweet berry it is, with every bit of exotic it deserves. and then, then i can greet people i love with hugs, and send emails to those i love that i don’t see, and write the short story that feels like it’s been on my tongue and brain and heart and fingers and toes for months. these little things need to plant and grow, and then maybe, maybe i’ll just get over myself and throw things i love into the wind, to share them, to see if they come back, to see what sticks.
“Oh, she says well, you’re not a poor man. You know, why don’t you go online and buy a hundred envelopes and put them in the closet? And so I pretend not to hear her. And go out to get an envelope because I’m going to have a hell of a good time in the process of buying one envelope. I meet a lot of people. And, see some great looking babes. And a fire engine goes by. And I give them the thumbs up. And, and ask a woman what kind of dog that is. And, and I don’t know. The moral of the story is, is we’re here on Earth to fart around. And, of course, the computers will do us out of that. And, what the computer people don’t realize, or they don’t care, is we’re dancing animals. You know, we love to move around. And, we’re not supposed to dance at all anymore.”—
umm so i broke my foot. and at first, i was pretty pissed, but now, i’ve got this whole weekend off, my creative writing teacher just excused me from last week’s homework, and i have spent the past 2 days watching the office, drinking coffee, and crocheting. oh, and not showering because i can’t stand that long. now i’m just content and wondering why the fuck i did not watch season 3 a lot sooner. DWIGHT MACED ROY?
I have a lot of feelings today. I had a lot of feelings last night during the debate; I watched it knitting, cuddled up in the futon with Larry while Elisabeth sat next to me untangling a huge hank of sock yarn. I realized several times that even through my knitting, my hands were shaking.
Just, hey, listen, America.
She’s been in this five weeks, like she said. The Republican ideals and policies are still the same and they are still terrifying and manipulative. Now, they are dressed up in a pretty woman who has a cute lil’ accent and a brilliant smile, who says things like “You betcha” and “God bless ‘em” and talks about how golly gee, she isn’t one-a you big-time Washington folks, hardy har, it must be obvious that she’s Main Street Wasilla, eh, and she just wants to work for the American people.
But that isn’t her choice. She’s been in this five weeks and she was chosen for that cute accent and that pretty face. To make those policies and ideals less scary. To dumb them down and make them seem like the ones who will benefit all the “Main Street” people sitting at the dinner table who just want the best for their families. She’s a talking mouth for them. She’s a tool. She’s a Trojan horse.
We - me, you, we - are not idiots. We don’t need everything dumbed down to that “oh golly gee” level. And like Sarah Mimnaugh said yesterday - “the problem isn’t that we don’t want a government that represents ‘Joe Six-Pack,’ the problem is that we don’t want ‘Joe Six-Pack’ to be running the government.”
The debate last night was terrifying to me, and if I wouldn’t have been in the coziest place in the world with best friends on either side of me I probably would have been crying the whole time. America is a country of convenience and consumption - give us what looks good and give us what’s easiest and every time, we bite. That’s why Sarah Palin is terrifying. She’s everything the government has done for the last eight years, looking beautiful and brilliant and smiling into the camera instead of looking the way you’re used to seeing it - LOL clips of George W. Bush trying to walk through locked doors. Do. Not. Buy It.
this is exactly how i felt watching it last night. we’re mocking ourselves right now. it’s terrifying.