nerve + wire
struggle to sketch the flow that already exists intact in mind

via Aviva Hope Rutkin
September 19, 2014
[When Vonnegut tells his wife he’s going out to buy an envelope] Oh, she says, well, you’re not a poor man. You know, why don’t you go online and buy a hundred envelopes and put them in the closet? And so I pretend not to hear her. And go out to get an envelope because I’m going to have a hell of a good time in the process of buying one envelope. I meet a lot of people. And, see some great looking babes. And a fire engine goes by. And I give them the thumbs up. And, and ask a woman what kind of dog that is. And, and I don’t know. The moral of the story is, is we’re here on Earth to fart around. And, of course, the computers will do us out of that. And, what the computer people don’t realize, or they don’t care, is we’re dancing animals. You know, we love to move around. And, we’re not supposed to dance at all anymore.
September 17, 2014
The New Yorks, Londons and Tokyos of the Internet have been formed. And they’re called Reddit, Facebook and Instagram. So as a news organisation, why would you not create a bureau in these metropolises?
August 14, 2014
CamMi Phan

CamMi Phan

August 11, 2014
All This Time

I’ve been living the wrong life.

I stepped out to bring in the milk
15 years ago

and now I see
I’m in the wrong house.
Who is this man

with the plaster dust on his hands?
What are these children doing in the kitchen?
The boy is skinny, smells

of goat, mixes Cheerios
and Alpen in his cereal bowl. The girl
reminds me of a jug

my mother had,
the china so fine, the milk shone
a blueish light through it.

Where are my bright
skirts, my heavy silver rings,
the red in my hair?

Shazea Quraishi (2007)
June 24, 2014
Bad books on writing tell you to ‘WRITE WHAT YOU KNOW’, a solemn and totally false adage that is the reason there exist so many mediocre novels about English professors contemplating adultery.
June 20, 2014
The parturition of a writer, I think, unlike that of a painter, does not display any interesting alliances to his masters. In the growth of a writer one finds nothing like the early Jackson Pollock copies of the Sistine Chapel paintings with their interesting cross-references to Thomas Hart Benton. A writer can be seen clumsily learning to walk, to tie his necktie, to make love, and to eat his peas off a fork. He appears much alone and determined to instruct himself. Naïve, provincial in my case, sometimes drunk, sometimes obtuse, almost always clumsy, even a selected display of one’s early work will be a naked history of one’s struggle to receive an education in economics and love.
Keep doing what you’re doing and stick to poetry and starve.
Maybe happiness is this: not wanting to be elsewhere, doing something else, being someone else.
April 11, 2014
Then again, the Internet is a new kind of barometer for keeping track of exactly how old you feel: how many things you don’t get, how many mini-Internet worlds you can’t find the door to; exactly how many crickets in the world you can no longer hear chirping. Unlike in generations past, when (I imagine) you just kept doing what you and your same-aged friends did, and aged into obscurity in comfort on a cloud of your own tastes and generational inclinations, until you died either thinking you all were still the coolest or not caring anymore about being cool, these days the Internet exists in part to introduce you to all these things you didn’t know about, but in part to remind you how much there is out there that you’ll never know about. The Internet is basically like being at a house party and trying to find the bathroom and opening up a door to a room where a bunch of kids are playing a game or doing a drug or having an orgy (metaphorically) or something and you get all flustered and say, “Oh, my God, I’m sorry!” and they all look at you like, “You pervert,” and you quickly slam the door shut. Everywhere you go on the Internet there are rooms you don’t understand, people playing games you don’t know the rules to, teenagers doing drugs you’ve never heard of and can’t even pronounce. And you just walk through the halls of this house party, aging in fast forward, until you open the one last door at the end of the hallway and it’s Death. Ha, ha.