CAMPS

IN WHICH I PROVE TO YOU HOW VERY INTERESTING I AM

Things

Unmentionable things. Legal things. Corporate apologists. Complaints. Lunch dates. Coaches. Laundry. Goodbye, dog. Goodbye, October 16th, in all your screwed up connotations. Where is hello? When does hello start?

http://the-toast.net/2014/10/14/talk-babies-semiotics/

  • ME: now show me where the author is
  • BABY: [stares blankly]
  • ME: that’s right
  • the author is dead
It was interesting to think of work as something that might help one’s writing, rather than as an uncomfortable but unavoidable impediment to it. The Millions : Working the Double Shift
richardswift:

"HELLO CARL, IT’S ME, TOM. I THINK THAT I JUST MELTED."

richardswift:

"HELLO CARL, IT’S ME, TOM. I THINK THAT I JUST MELTED."

Business travel

You have to be good to yourself. This is when all the demons come out. Fatigue. Lack of sleep. Isolation. Potato chips. Foreign languages. When you’re bad to your body, your body reacts. It says NO. It reads a story by Atul Gawande about a piano teacher taking hospice and cries, suddenly. It has thoughts about boys, men, should you call them, should you text them, what should you do? You should do nothing because this is your body talking, and I’m tired, and I’m out of my mind, so don’t make any false moves.

You wonder where to put these thoughts. They’re not Instagrammable. They’re definitely not for Facebook. Don’t call Dad. And yet they’re bigger than writing in the tiny journal which is now your full-time companion, with its built-in “Kitty.”

You have a PowerPoint to do. What are you waiting for? You need to update Salesforce and track your hours. Since Friday you have crossed 9 time zones. Where are you? What season is it? Are there more chips in the minibar?

Why did you schedule a call for 5:30pm? Do you know how much that’s going to cost?

Be nice to yourself because your body is failing you. All you have left is your tenuous grasp on reality, the final tree limb saving you from the cavern below the cliff.

oldloves:

Between Miles and me there was a great love affair, the kind you’d want everybody to experience. Throughout our lives, we were never lost to each other. Whenever he could, he would leave messages for me in the places I travelled in Europe: “I was here, you weren’t.”
He came to see me at my house a few months before he died. He was sitting in the drawing room and at one point I went to the verandah to look at the garden. I heard his devilish laugh. I asked him what had provoked it. “No matter where I was,” he said, “in whatever corner of the world, looking at that back, I’d know it was you.”
- The French singer and actress, Juliette Gréco, in an essay for The Guardian on her romance with Miles Davies

oldloves:

Between Miles and me there was a great love affair, the kind you’d want everybody to experience. Throughout our lives, we were never lost to each other. Whenever he could, he would leave messages for me in the places I travelled in Europe: “I was here, you weren’t.”

He came to see me at my house a few months before he died. He was sitting in the drawing room and at one point I went to the verandah to look at the garden. I heard his devilish laugh. I asked him what had provoked it. “No matter where I was,” he said, “in whatever corner of the world, looking at that back, I’d know it was you.”

- The French singer and actress, Juliette Gréco, in an essay for The Guardian on her romance with Miles Davies

Gray

What’s going on with the weather in NYC today? It’s almost, to borrow a phrase, excruciatingly gray. All I see is damp nothingness.

This is the opposite of the California from which I have just returned. 36 hours of sun, so far as I could tell through the hotel window.

I have reached a level of fatigue that precludes thought. I am operating on 10% battery life. 

I am too tired to eat a burrito. Too tired to eat a biscotti. Too tired to read a poem. To figure out how “repeat album” works on Spotify. To buy the proper speaker connection for my turntable. To clip my fingernails.

I don’t even recognize the seasons anymore.

(Source: cordjefferson)

Who drinks your tears, who has your wings, who tells your story? The Sunday Rumpus Essay: Casa Azul Cripple by Emily Rapp. (via therumpus)

(via therumpus)

What if

You had the best day of your professional career and no one to share it with?