"A poem is a naked person. Some people say I am a poet."
--Bob Dylan

Occasional bouts of misanthropy, but if you wear that velvet dress...


I don’t think many people truly understand the power of gestures. The rich, the middle class; they understand the power of money. They have their money to speak for them. They have their money to say — I care about you. I care about cancer research. I care about the homeless. They donate to causes, write cheques, dismiss anyone that doesn’t do the same. They say, “What’s the use of your useless gesture? Do something that actually helps. Donate. Give money.” And don’t we all just fawn in appreciation when we hear that a musician has contributed millions to a cause? We all know that part of it is PR, but isn’t it just lovely? Isn’t it wonderful PR?

Growing up, my parents couldn’t give me and my siblings a lot of things. But my parents’ gestures meant everything. It was their dominant currency. The things that people do for you when they can’t give you material love are unsurmountable in value. I remember my younger self remarking to a friend that his chocolate muffin looked delicious, and he gave it to me! Immediately, without hesitation. And there is the power of a gesture encapsulated in a moment. I can’t give you many things, I can’t give you money, but if you want what I have to give, if you want my muffin, then I will give you my muffin. It’s like when Rachel Corrie said:

"I can’t cool boiling waters in Russia. I can’t be Picasso. I can’t be Jesus. I can’t save the planet single-handedly.

I can wash dishes.”

But people don’t understand the value of gestures. They just don’t. The only thing that is considered useful and legitimate is money. There is no usefulness in metaphors, in poetry, in giving through gestures. How does your gesture help someone move off the street? They would ask. Well maybe it won’t. But isn’t the lifting of the human spirit with a gesture of love worth something? Isn’t it worth something to make them feel like the world is a place where someone cares enough to do something for them as an equal human being & not just always be giving them money? Isn’t is worth something to make someone feel like they aren’t just a charity case?

11:12"Holding Eleanor’s hand was like holding a butterfly. Or a heartbeat. Like holding something complete, and completely alive."

Rainbow Rowell, Eleanor & Park (via quotes-shape-us)

(Source: thirdeyeblinded, via verkur)


I stepped out of the saturation of your garment
For a moment, for a reason. Only to plunge back in
A little later, when the closet was different.
You don’t keep me at bay or away.

There is everything I can say to you.
Your voice is a rapturous clarinet
That doesn’t listen, ripe, evenings.
You tell me to go away, and I stay.


John Ashbery, from section III of “Fall Pageant,” April Galleons: Poems (Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 1999)

(Source: apoetreflects)

05:54"I think the saddest people always try their hardest to make people happy, because they know what it’s like to feel absolutely worthless, and they don’t want anyone else to feel like that."

Robin Williams. (via skateeofmind)

(via coolstoryfuckface)

05:54"I am jealous of those who think more deeply, who write better, who draw better, who look better, who live better, who love better than I."

 Sylvia Plath (via naomilku)

(Source: have--not, via levresrouges)

05:54"And that was when you realized the fire was inside you all the time. And that was the miracle. Just that."

Michael Chabon, The Yiddish Policemen’s Union

(Source: quotes-shape-us)

05:53"Looking at these stars suddenly dwarfed my own troubles and all the gravities of terrestrial life."

The Time Traveller, The Time Machine by H.G. Wells (via literaryquotations)

(via thymoss)

05:53 l-isan:

Roxanne by Jérémy Barniaud.


Roxanne by Jérémy Barniaud.

(via l-isan)

05:09"There are roughly three New Yorks. There is, first, the New York of the man or woman who was born here, who takes the city for granted and accepts its size and its turbulence as natural and inevitable. Second, there is the New York of the commuter — the city that is devoured by locusts each day and spat out each night. Third, there is the New York of the person who was born somewhere else and came to New York in quest of something. Of these three trembling cities the greatest is the last — the city of final destination, the city that is a goal. It is this third city that accounts for New York’s high-strung disposition, its poetical deportment, its dedication to the arts, and its incomparable achievements. Commuters give the city its tidal restlessness; natives give it solidity and continuity; but the settlers give it passion. And whether it is a farmer arriving from Italy to set up a small grocery store in slum, or a young girl arriving from a small town in Mississippi to escape the indignity of being observed by her neighbors, or a boy arriving from the Corn Belt with a manuscript in his suitcase and a pain in his heart, it makes no difference: each embraces New York with the intense excitement of first love, each absorbs New York with the fresh eyes of an adventurer, each generates heat and light to dwarf the Consolidated Edison Company."

E.B. White, from "Here is New York" 

(Source: weissewiese, via notebookings)