i once had beautiful photos in the car.
beautiful photos.

تولدت مبارک

عشقم
what to say except that all my roads lead to you
all my love
all my warmest, dearest, wishes
جان دلم

ـ گل تو

The most striking visuals in Game of Thrones are of the north: tiny black flecks in fields of white, labouring slowly, painfully into the unfeeling deep; the quiet cracking of the ice; the bright blindness of the sudden storm, the shadows grey and muffled against the shifting silver walls; the cold, tight skin; the steam of breath mingled with the sharp air; the hard lungs in the dense, wet silence...

Welkom!

Hello, lone reader in the Netherlands.

on evolution

i used to spend my time in (civilized, room-to-sit) transit with the news, with my thoughts, with my notes and writings. when i started driving it was music. when i couldn't--when it was impossible to--listen, it was news, interviews, analysis.

now, jostled, crushed, sandwiched between elbows, shoulders, coffee cups, i'm developing a mild personality disorder. i both read and listen. my big headphones are space-invaders, but they're on. the volume isn't high, but it isn't worried-about-annoying-people low. my phone is usually out. my purse is too big. sometimes i'll take a seat, even if i don't really need it.

it's not me. but there's no other way.

Nausea, as soon as I read the first few lines. Raging, rigid waves of self-doubt followed by actual nausea, vertigo, watching the stanza swirl, distort with the ever-widening distance between it and me. I will never write like this. I can never write like this. Who am I but a silly little girl who plays at art..

It's not just this. It's not just this that prevents me from reading my own medium. It's that my body rebels. It's that I wept on the way to Copenhagen, with Alice Major in one hand and New Yorker poetry in the other. It's that I weep now, in transit, as they shoot darts in my eyes.

f's phrase of the month: you eat like a child and a grandpa at the same time