eventual knowing

The Earth Below: 3 album cover illustrations

terry never thought much of my romantic decisions. i guess really he didn’t think they were decisions at all.

“you don’t know anything about her,” he would insist, though the contention was never well-received. i was not a casual dater, even in college, and “her” was generally someone i had been sleeping beside, arguing with, reeling out and back in and/or clinging to desperately for months upon years. this assertion of my ignorance would have been unpalatably insulting, had it not been so empirically absurd.

but terry has cultivated a certain curmudgeonliness to cope with his daily exposure to the unfettered whimseys of well-funded youth, and my visible offense only inspired him to dig in his heels. “you don’t know anything about any of your friends,” he’d expand.

[ i know what i know, below the fold. ]

occupy sunday

the people’s reference librarian, and other occupiers

you’re looking at the people’s reference librarian. one of them, anyway.

within minutes of my initial descent into liberty plaza, where the much-heralded occupation of wall street is now in its fiftieth day, i realized i’d been woefully misled. this was not so much a matter of bias, which, as an oft-obsessive consumer of news, i feel capable of identifying and accounting for. it was instead an utter lack of understanding among the vast majority of those assigned to report on the protest of what it was they were looking at (it doesn’t help that many didn’t bother to show up before settling in to pontificate). this haziness on the part of our media intermediaries has been widely perceived as a lack of purpose or organization among the occupiers themselves, but the absurdity of this appraisal reveals itself to physical visitors almost immediately.

[ more revealing immediacy, below the fold. ]

truth be told


[ buy this print. ]

at the age of ten, madison was still drawing.

in and of itself, the fact is oddly significant. by her age, most kids seem already to have identified the visual arts as something they do or don’t “do.” or perhaps something they do or can’t do.

it’s a perplexing phenomenon. most of us are pretty mediocre writers, and yet i’ve never heard somebody say, “oh no, i don’t write,” or “i only do tweets.” to be fair, drawing is less closely associated than writing with one’s appeal to potential employers, and so we are allowed, well before the age of employment, not to pursue it.

but i was among that endless stream of heretofore tone-deaf ninth-graders who decided to pick up the guitar (which remains, sixteen years later, one of the great pleasures of my little life). once sedentary college friends found devotion to intramural sports or modern dance. who’s ever started drawing in her early twenties? “i only do stick figures,” people will assure you.

[ continued below the fold. ]

the kingdom

Isaac beneath a shady palm

my dad and baby brother [ above ] took me to orlando, that immersive capitalist dystopia where the dream that every last inch of everywhere might someday come under private ownership has been very nearly realized, where each place is carefully crafted to advance the brand identity of its steward, and where the commons (to the extent to which any space here can be called public) are beset by an equal and opposite tragedy: the insidious tyranny of commercial concern.

[ viva la resistance, below the fold. ]

study break

study break

girlcate is taking her final “1L” exam today.

final final?” my mother inquired. “this is the very last one?” her excitement inspired my own to ebb somewhat; i would be losing, for the summer months, my least assailable excuse for not showing up to things.

[ excuses, excuses, below the fold. ]

on cohabiting with a food blogger

on cohabiting with a food blogger

prints of this comic (in its original configuration; it required a bit of reformatting to be legible here in ‘blogland) are available below the fold. they’re guaranteed to make your kitchen at least 63% more adorable.

the recipe for the chocolate chip cookies in the last panel can be found, along with those for countless other confections, over at afternoons in tablespoons. it’s guaranteed to make your life 116% more delicious. if used in conjunction with a thanksgiving gathering, it is also guaranteed to make your republican uncle consider, however fleetingly, the possibility that you may not be entirely devoid of value.

happy autumn.

the district sleeps with its phone

counting the cars

i don’t have an iphone or whatever. a “smart phone?” a “data plan?” my phone just does phone stuff. and i wonder how many years i have before this paragraph is utterly incomprehensible (rather than just largely incoherent).

[ babble on, below the fold. ]

screaming from the gallery

screaming from the gallery

[ the following essay first appeared in fantastic monsters, an anthology ‘zine edited by caitlin m., which debuted at the 2010 mocca art fest. you know, in case you were wondering what all the capital letters were for. ]

The courtroom is colder than it was outside, but at least it’s also drier. Soles squeak against the linoleum, resoundingly but a-rhythmically, no matter how one tries to count it out. (Still, who can help but try; it’s an alluring but un-winnable game, a puzzle that can’t be decrypted.) Watches are checked aggressively, proactively: forty-three minutes. Longer, it is noted, than the Feldman jury took, but that, of course, was a once-in-a-career victory. The time elapsed is still less than most consensuses require.

[ the time it is elapsin', below the fold. ]

imagine me and you and you and mecaf

penobscot bay

i love maine. grego’ and rachael are both mainers, and i spent as much of my early twenties as possible stomping around their homeland, climbing on katahdin and lusting after odd old instruments in bar harbor and drinking pumpkinhead ale in portland and trying to keep my lunch down, or at least inside my own zipper car, at the blue hill fair.

[ more of maine's myriad merits, below the fold. ]

some days end up here

the oubliette

drought is the newest autobiographical romantic misadventure to wind its un-fortuitous way into the oubliette.

[ read all about it (and buy it, if you like) below the fold. ]