current emotional status: sighing on the couch eating a loaf of bread wondering why I’m not Kanye West
important life tip: buy matching sweatshirts with your coworker and declare Drake Wednesday to be a weekly occurance
I been about you and I’m still about you
You know, they straightened out the Mississippi River in places, to make room for houses and livable acreage. Occasionally the river floods these places. “Floods” is the word they use, but in fact it is not flooding; it is remembering. Remembering where it used to be. All water has a perfect memory and is forever trying to get back to where it was. Writers are like that: remembering where we were, what valley we ran through, what the banks were like, the light that was there and the route back to our original place. It is emotional memory — what the nerves and the skin remember as well as how it appeared. And a rush of imagination if is our “flooding.”
Excerpt from “The Site of Memory,” Toni Morrison, What Moves at the Margin: Selected Nonfiction (via commovente)
Don’t be afraid of The Work.
Don’t be afraid of your past.
Remember to take risks.
Remember to place real emotion at the center of The Work.
Move toward your vulnerabilities.
Listen to your stories.
Remember not everything requires an apology or excuse.
Follow your needs and wants; find the balance.
Be afraid of wasting time comparing yourself to others and their idea “correct.”
Be afraid of wasting energy obsessing about The Solution; obsess over The Work itself.
Find solace in unpacking and articulating what keeps you flinching.
Allow yourself to move forward.
If you would like a digital copy of my now out of print collection, Supernova Factory, send me your email. The copy doesn’t have the beautiful cover designed by clarev (above) but everything else is there & ready to be read by you & your wonderful eyes.
UPDATE: after the tiny but significant flood of folks asking for a copy & a short text exchange between myself and aleatoricism, we have decided to send this little star book baby to a second printing! SO PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF YOU WANT A COPY BECAUSE WE ARE TRYING TO GET AN ESTIMATE ON HOW MANY WE NEED TO MAKE. UM I LOVE Y’ALL WITH MY WHOLE STUPID SMILING FACE
made an impulsive decision this afternoon to help Dalton bring this magical little book to life again! like he mentioned above, let him know if you’d like a copy so we can figure out what a print run might look like.
heart eyes about Dalton’s work forever, and about Dalton as a person. this book is one of my absolute favorite things and you all deserve a chance to be able to hold it in your hands
I wanted to see where beauty comes from
without you in the world, hauling my heart
across sixty acres of northeast meadow,
my pockets filling with flowers.
Then I remembered,
it’s you I miss in the brightness
and body of every living name:
rattlebox, yarrow, wild vetch.
You are the green wonder of June,
root and quasar, the thirst for salt.
When I finally understand that people fail
at love, what is left but cinquefoil, thistle,
the paper wings of the dragonfly
aeroplaning the soul with a sudden blue hilarity?
If I get the story right, desire is continuous,
equatorial. There is still so much
I want to know: what you believe
can never be removed from us,
what you dreamed on Walnut Street
in the unanswerable dark of your childhood,
learning pleasure on your own.
Tell me our story: are we impetuous,
are we kind to each other, do we surrender
to what the mind cannot think past?
Where is the evidence I will learn
to be good at loving?
The black dog orbits the horseshoe pond
for treefrogs in their plangent emergencies.
There are violet hills,
there is the covenant of duskbirds.
The moon comes over the mountain
like a big peach, and I want to tell you
what I couldn’t say the night we rushed
North, how I love the seriousness of your fingers
and the way you go into yourself,
calling my half-name like a secret.
I stand between taproot and treespire.
Here is the compass rose
to help me live through this.
Here are twelve ways of knowing
what blooms even in the blindness
of such longing. Yellow oxeye,
viper’s bugloss with its set of pink arms
pleading do not forget me.
We hunger for eloquence.
We measure the isopleths.
I am visiting my life with reckless plenitude.
The air is fragrant with tiny strawberries.
Fireflies turn on their electric wills:
an effulgence. Let me come back
whole, let me remember how to touch you
before it is too late.
— Stacie Cassarino, Summer Solstice
sanctified, rick ross & kanye & big sean
~ all i wanted was a hundred million dollars and a bad bitch ~
someone please come pat my head and tell me that even though I am moving friday and dangerously close to stress barfing every five seconds, it’ll be just fine
It has been a long time since I last wrote, but I’m trying. Once again, I am vibrating with things I’d like to say, words I want to give because that is the most I have sometimes—a presentation of my emotions cemented as fact. It is a testament to being here, I think, a firm resolution in a love that often feels boundless.
This winter was kind to me, despite its bitter appearance. My edges grew softer. I did not burrow myself quite as deep. The wolves stayed away, and continue to keep their distance. There is a light somewhere. Spring’s warmth meanders in and fists unfurl.
We buzz together in this home I have built for you. Beneath the floorboards, we are humming something sweeter than before. I’ve been trying to map it out again: the chronology of circular drives and train ticket stubs and morning routines, but all I keep coming up with is patience. We have taught each other patience, and here is the reward. How close we have been so many times to curling away from each other, only to laugh ourselves further into love.
Perhaps, unsurprisingly, I spend most of my time these days being grateful.