hi, it's lucy diamond biederman
we have no alibi in existence
— Mikhail Bakhtin, basically: what do you think, i didn’t *live,* too?
My idea of rich is that you can buy every book you ever want without looking at the price and you’re never around assholes. That’s the two things to really fight for in life.
— John Waters (via mrgolightly)
My experience of the internet, as it has congealed into a set of fossilizing cultural and social practices, is something like those parties. I am exhausted by getting people’s material. There are dozens of websites and networks on which the digital elite interact, but you could combine them all and name it Clevr, where people go to be funny and to be seen being funny and to be rewarded with acknowledgments that they are funny. I feel the tension of people throwing their best stuff out there, and absorb their ambient anxiety as they tensely wait for the digital strokes to roll in. I cannot help but say that very few people seem to be made genuinely happy by this ceaseless, unrelenting writers room. Instead, they paw around at the vague feeling of embarrassment that hangs around the whole enterprise like the marine layer, consciously rejecting that shame but unable to will it away by writing a longread. And I wonder if we all wouldn’t be better served if, rather than trying to will away this ambient embarrassment, people asked themselves if they feel it for a good reason, if maybe there isn’t something else they’re all supposed to be doing.
THIS THIS THIS THIS THIS forever. I think lots about the internet is good and amazing, but I also think THIS
The White RoomThe trauma is now
inseparable from the body, a watery feeling
like inhaling the ocean or listening
for silence at the blue stem of a wrist.
I knew love once, he couldn’t make a living.
He liked music for the way it left itself
alone. In the aquarium I kiss
the glass I tell the audience they’re wonderful.
I am swimming the old hotel
of sleep’s inner lining.
I like poems, “held between two people, Lucky Pierre-style.”
(See also: Frank O’Hara.) With Coleridge, when done reading
“I rise as though in prayer.” Such poems gather
everything into the now of the poem. I want to gather
everything into the now of this poem, but I can’t.
Rebecca Lindenberg, from Love, An Index
works with an audience or it works
without an audience the audience made
of the players or the endowment itself
a role becomes intuitive worn like robes
in the cold or modest morning
Glenn Shaheen, from “Direction”
His life is a pursuit of a pursuit forever.
— Robert Frost
it was like warm water
it was like warm water
but without the water
without the words that
the water could hold
it was like that and
all the time until
it wasn’t and even then
the air held to something
and for a minute, entire
minutes into an acre
I believed it because it
was what was given, all
the water, what it gave.
Dead white guys and not-dead not-white not guys hate it when you dismiss revered works of art and literature by saying, Ugggggggggh. I hate this.
And give no reasons why at all.
If I live to a hundred, do I really have to spend eighty-five or more of those years explaining why I don’t like this?
We’re all writing one big poem and you’re adding your line on to the end of it in a sense.
« I’d prefer to be left out completely than be a part of one big poem. « I have my own thing to say ALONE, & I believe other poets do too.
« I do not believe we’re at the end of it
« Who would accept only a single line just a line?
« ALL-TOGETHER isn’t what I want; I want to feel ALONE and LIVING.