[literature meme] • 2/3 movements
The Beat Generation was a group of American post-World War II writers who came to prominence in the 1950s, as well as the cultural phenomena that they both documented and inspired. Central elements of “Beat” culture included rejection of received standards, innovations in style, experimentation with drugs, alternative sexualities, an interest in Eastern religion, a rejection of materialism, and explicit portrayals of the human condition.
You can see the beauty in her eyes. A portrait of the great writer Joan Didion by Irving Penn.
But some people can’t tell where it hurts.
They can’t calm down.
They can’t ever stop howling.
Margaret Atwood (via rabbitinthemoon)
Don’t be a writer; be writing.
William Faulkner on writing. (via politicsprose)
The sound of
reclamation into slightly dirty bowl
Primed for lift off
In a regular sort of way
With candle sticks and what is good to read
Folded back, dog
Of egos come and gone
Make a note -a sticky note
Invitation to the dance
Slices and slices of
Freshly spent time
Lined up in order of thought and deed
The bowl fills up
A pink reflection possible
A look inside gives bones to disembodied dreams
The sound of birds
At nesting time
Held by trees that drop more seeds
The ground receives them
And time to fly
Fall or pushed
These things happen
To be the truth
Of old and new
An image emerges in the bowl
There is more
Where that came from
With folded arms
Toss a wish
Its harvest time
It was time to wash the windows and I wondered where to start.
“I have an idea,” meowed a familiar voice.
And I knew the idea would require much of me. So I pretended not to listen and began to gather up some cleaning materials. It really didn’t matter so much where I started. All the windows needed cleaning.
“Just start,” I thought.
“Oh yes,” she purred. Anywhere indeed.
So allow me to present to you my cat. She shows up in my writing from time to time. Her full name is Annie B Whiskers the Mafia Cat. The B stands for Bonino and I usually call her Mrs. Bonino or Annie. She is 7 years old, which I think means that she is 49. The very same age that I am. This is the one year that will be the case. Next year I will be 50 and she will be 56. We are getting older, she and I.
She tells me important things and sometimes I ignore them. I do not like her advice about men for example. She is usually correct but does not pussyfoot around when it comes to the truth. I like the truth but sometimes I like to control the timing a little.
Besides, her experience with males is pretty pathetic so I do not think she is in a position to point her little Bonino paw at me.
Oh yes, we are talking about windows and I have gotten sidetracked by the topic of “men” again. I am on a “man” break at the moment. In recovery so to speak.
So yes…the windows.
Annie was staring at me. “Are you going to start inside or outside?” she asked. “Doesn’t much matter,” I said. “ Does it?”
“Depends,” she said,“on whether you can see what you miss from each side. Sometimes if you start on the outside, you miss the inside bits. And then when you go inside you realize you have missed a couple of outside bits and when you go to fix them… well – anyways its up to you of course.” And she hopped up on the sofa.
“So you are saying maybe I should start on the inside?” I asked.
“Not at all, she said. “Like you said, just start.”
“Great,” I thought to myself. Because I knew I was missing something. Now it mattered to me where to start.
Annie was snoring. With her eyes wide open. Not purring. Snoring. I reached over the sofa where she lay and sprayed a little window cleaner on the glass. As I began to wipe, she began to snore more quietly and her eyes closed and she fell into her afternoon cat coma. I cleaned and polished and checked and cleaned. When I thought it was perfect, I slipped on my shoes and popped out to do the outside next.
This time I used a bit stronger cleaner in a bucket and I really scrubbed and dried and polished. I looked through the window and saw my little friend still curled up sleeping and twitching away.
“Pretty good,” I smiled, satisfied with myself. Now I was really in the mood to do the rest. I went in to admire my work and to begin the next window.
I looked at my cat with her eyes closed and I knew she was wide awake. I leaned over her and tried to polish the spots that were clearly on the outside.
“I think I need help,” I said aloud to no one in particular.
“Exactly,” came a nod from the couch.
Thanks, Mrs. B.
Image Source: Pinterest
"The difference between that which is humane and that which is patriotic is a vital difference." - Toni Morrison
“Some find Lebanese poet Kahlil Gibran’s poetry preachy and moralizing, but I find it plenty enlightening—it’s hard to object to the melodic, cosmic of mysticism of a line like ‘That which sings and contemplates in you is still dwelling within the bounds of that first moment which scattered the stars into space.’”
This week’s staff picks, including George Saunders talking to an alien, J.D. Daniels on “Room 237,” and Iris Murdoch on good people.
Nobody will ever love you as much as an artist can. On your worst days, they will find poetry in the knots of your hair.
That Could Have Been Me (k.p.k) (via kaeandlucy)
Language is wine upon the lips.
Virginia Woolf (via larmoyante)