pocket

What Newton Said

Fri, 11 Dec 2009 09:59:26 -0800

There is a specific type of inertia that results from spending an entire day in sweatpants and indoors. It induces drowsiness even after eight hours of sleep, a propensity to snack even after lunch, and an inability to generate independent thoughts.

yes.

"Listen: I am ideally happy. My happiness is a kind of challenge. As I wander along the streets and..."

Thu, 10 Dec 2009 22:43:05 -0800

“Listen: I am ideally happy. My happiness is a kind of challenge. As I wander along the streets and the squares and the paths by the canal, absently sensing the lips of dampness through my worn soles, I carry proudly my ineffable happiness. The centuries will roll by, and schoolboys will yawn over the history of our upheavals; everything will pass, but my happiness, dear, my happiness will remain, in the moist reflection of a streetlamp, in the cautious bend of stone steps that descend into the canal’s black waters, in the smiles of a dancing couple, in everything with which God so generously surrounds human loneliness.”

- Vladimir Nabokov, “A Letter That Never Reached Russia. (via littlewhiskey) (via sometimesagreatnotion)

oh, v. nabokov. oh, happiness. oh, loneliness.

unburyingthelead reminded me of this, which i love.

Thu, 10 Dec 2009 21:11:39 -0800

unburyingthelead reminded me of this, which i love.

On Language

Thu, 10 Dec 2009 20:59:56 -0800

petitchou:

Some peoples, such as the Wishram Chinook of the Columbia River in what is now the state of Washington, or the Ashantie of Nigeria, have considered infants’ vocalizations to manifest a special language. For the Wishram, this language was interpretable only by men having certain guardian spirits. In such cases, the native language is in native theory a second language to everyone.

-Dell Hymes, from Models of the Interaction of Language and Social Life

There is no combination of characters one can make—dhcmrlchtdj, for example—that the Library has not foreseen and that in one or more of its secret tongues does not hide a terrible significance. There is no syllable one can speak that is not filled with tenderness and terror, that is not, in one of those languages, the mighty name of a god. To speak is to commit tautologies. This pointless, verbose epistle already exists in one of the thirty volumes of the five bookshelves on one of the countless hexagons—as does its refutation. (A number n of the possible languages employ the same vocabulary; in some of them, the symbol “library” possesses the correct definition “everlasting, ubiquitous system of hexagonal galleries,” while a library—the thing—is a loaf of bread or a pyramid or something else, and the six words that define it themselves have other definitions. You who read me—are you certain you understand my language?)

-Jorge Louis Borges, from The Library of Babel

How astonishing it is that language can almost mean,
and frightening that it does not quite. Love, we say,
God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write, and the words
get it all wrong. We say bread and it means according
to which nation. French has no word for home,
and we have no word for strict pleasure. A people
in northern India is dying out because their ancient
tongue has no words for endearment. I dream of lost
vocabularies that might express some of what
we no longer can. Maybe the Etruscan texts would
finally explain why the couples on their tombs
are smiling. And maybe not. When the thousands
of mysterious Sumerian tablets were translated,
they seemed to be business records. But what if they
are poems or psalms? My joy is the same as twelve
Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light.
O Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper,
as grand as ripe barley lithe under the wind’s labor.
Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts
of long-fibered Egyptian cotton. My love is a hundred
pitchers of honey. Shiploads of thuya are what
my body wants to say to your body. Giraffes are this
desire in the dark. Perhaps the spiral Minoan script
is not language but a map. What we feel most has
no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses, and birds.

-Jack Gilbert, The Forgotten Dialect of the Heart

the state that i am in

Thu, 10 Dec 2009 12:29:00 -0800

i have been eating exclusively mashed potatoes and banana bread
i have been wearing a fuzzy sweater that makes me feel like a bear cub everyday since mills bought it for me (approximately six days straight, removing it only to shower)
i have taken to talking to my christmas tree

these are things that i am neither proud nor ashamed of.

sydvish: Mills is busy serving up holiday cheer… this is...

Thu, 10 Dec 2009 11:19:26 -0800

sydvish:

Mills is busy serving up holiday cheer…

this is amazing. thanks for the lolzers syd!!

(my man looks hella rugged in an apron, yo)

measart: kiss-scout niblett w/bonnie prince billy and darling...

Thu, 10 Dec 2009 10:52:57 -0800

measart:

kiss-scout niblett w/bonnie prince billy

and darling take my hand
and lead me through the door
let’s kidnap each other
and start singing our song

my heart is charged now
oh, it’s dancing in my chest
and I fly when I walk now
from the spell in that kiss

picture wednesday: my room, me, christmas tree.

Wed, 09 Dec 2009 19:42:48 -0800

picture wednesday: my room, me, christmas tree.

song and stamp! stamp: pictured song: inside my head

Tue, 08 Dec 2009 11:58:42 -0800

song and stamp!

stamp: pictured

song: inside my head

the absolutely impeccable and always charming sarah belfort sent...

Tue, 08 Dec 2009 11:54:00 -0800

the absolutely impeccable and always charming sarah belfort sent this to me from africa and it brought a little bit of lovely to my day.

(pictured here with a christmas tree ornament also inspired by her whimsy)

thank you!

distorte makes a v. important distinction

Tue, 08 Dec 2009 11:28:00 -0800

“Join the club.

I mean on Liebowitz! On Liebowitz!”

some days i really love the internet.

this double differentiation by pierce really brought on the rofls. (not to be confused with the flizzens)

"I’ve often thought that had I been compelled to live in the trunk of a dead tree, with nothing to do..."

Tue, 08 Dec 2009 11:07:40 -0800

“I’ve often thought that had I been compelled to live in the trunk of a dead tree, with nothing to do but gaze up at the patch of sky just overhead, I’d have got used to it by degrees.”

- Albert Camus in The Stranger. (I just woke up from a dream about this book) (via cosmopsis)

hooray camus dreams!

mills came to visit and we nuzzled the pacific, questioned the...

Mon, 07 Dec 2009 18:40:00 -0800

mills came to visit and we nuzzled the pacific, questioned the synchronicity of late night tacos and carrot juice, consumed copious amounts of coffee and pastries, got nauseous together on highway one, and made everyone on the street jealous with my perfect, tiny christmas tree.

it was his first time in california much less san francisco. it was a delight to introduce him to my city, bay oysters, bart, real hills, both bridges and crazy crackheads.

as always, i took too little photos (a few more here). however, he took many and i am certain i will pester you with them soon enough.

picture wednesday: sitting in the kitchen, watching seinfeld,...

Wed, 02 Dec 2009 20:42:00 -0800

picture wednesday: sitting in the kitchen, watching seinfeld, beginning to think airplanes fly too fucking slow edition.

observation:

Tue, 01 Dec 2009 23:09:00 -0800

one thing about living in a city is how often you inadvertently become an observer of someone else’s life. an old man moved into an apartment next to my building; he has not yet hung the curtains. just now, i sat on my balcony, smoking a cigarette after class, and watched him. he had some sort of rectangular, plastic container on top of the refrigerator. he was attempting to place the clear lid on it. i couldn’t tell what was inside. perhaps plants? small figurines? whatever it was was very important to him. he kept placing the lid on, tilting his head, removing it, and readjusting. he walked around, attempting different angles, lowering it differently, tucking something in, shaking his head, saying something to himself. i felt kind of guilty for watching and wondering. a black cat sat on his counter and was also watching. after about ten minutes of alterations, he decided it was alright and shuffled out of the room.

the thing is, i know this feeling. i have moved into an empty room and felt only ghosts inside. i quickly try to fill it with my favorite things. i can’t unpack all at once, so i grab a push pin and hang one picture, a good one; i stack certain books next to my bed. somehow surrounding myself with these things that i have loved, that i have touched over and over, that have hung on the wall through relationships and death and lonely nights and sunny mornings brings comfort.

i hope that he is comforted.

snack time.

Tue, 01 Dec 2009 12:06:14 -0800

snack time.

dear wednesday, please hurry up. i’m ready for a little of...

Mon, 30 Nov 2009 18:37:41 -0800

dear wednesday,

please hurry up. i’m ready for a little of this.

love,

abby

a birthday crown for YOU! may you have the loveliest of days.

Mon, 30 Nov 2009 14:25:15 -0800

a birthday crown for YOU!

may you have the loveliest of days.

sometimesagreatnotion: Strangers - The Kinks

Sun, 29 Nov 2009 23:58:12 -0800

sometimesagreatnotion:

Strangers - The Kinks

“a fog that won’t burn away drifts and flows across my field of vision. when you see fog...

Sun, 29 Nov 2009 14:41:45 -0800

“a fog that won’t burn away drifts and flows across my field of vision. when you see fog move against a backdrop of deep pines, you don’t see the fog itself, but streaks of clearness floating across the air in dark shreds. so i see only tatters of clearness through a pervading obscurity. i can’t distinguish the fog from the overcast sky; i can’t be sure if the light is direct or reflected. everywhere the darkness and the presence of the unseen appalls. we estimate now that only one atom dances alone in every cubic meter of intergalactic space. i blink and squint. what planet or power yanks halley’s comet out of orbit? we haven’t seen it yet; it’s a question of distance, density, and the pallor of reflected light. we rock, cradled in the swaddling band of darkness. even the simple darkness of night whispers suggestions to the mind.”

annie dillard sight into insight