Tuesday, June 19, 2012


All I could smell were damp clouds and water slipping through the tundra. I could not find what startled the bear. I could not smell the humanness, the incomprehensible scent that sends a full-grown grizzly running like a scared cat. I breathed deeper when the bear was a dot of gold light a mile away[.] ("Bear," The Animal Dialogues, Craig Child)
and this:
Some might claim that this is a book of solitudes. (Becoming Animal, David Abram)
and this:
We'd compete, daring each other to go as far as we could, marking our limits. "We're being chased by wolves, and we have to run," or "Whoever goes farthest's vizier," we said. I was the third-best southgoer in my gang. In our usual spot, there was a Hostnest in fine alien colours tethered by creaking ropes of muscle to a stockade, that in some affectation the Hosts had fashioned like one of our wicker fences. I'd creep up on it while my friends whistled from the crossroads. (Embassytown,  China Mieville)
and this:
I have to step
over the dark threshold
A hall.
The white document gleams.
With so many shadows moving.
Everyone wants to sign it. ("Signatures," The Great Enigma, Tomas Transtromer)
and this:
It isn't that I don't sympathize with the lassitude. I understand it all too well. Creativity demands an ability to be with oneself at one's least attractive, that sometimes it's just easier not to do anything. Writing--I can really only speak to writing here--always, always only starts out as shit: an infant of monstrous aspect; bawling, ugly, terrible, and it stays terrible for a long, long time. Unlike cooking, for example, where largely edible, if raw, ingredients are assembled, cut, heated, and otherwise manipulated into something both digestible and palatable, writing is closer to having to reverse-engineer a meal out of rotten food. ("Isn't It Romantic?" Half Empty, David Rakoff)
Also: writing, eating, sleeping, walking, internetting.

I said good day.

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