A Radically Condensed History of Postindustrial Life

By David Foster Wallace

When they were introduced, he made a witticism, hoping to be liked. She laughed extremely hard, hoping to be liked. Then each drove home alone, staring straight ahead, with the very same twist to their faces.

The man who'd introduced them didn't much like either of them, though he acted as if he did, anxious as he was to preserve good relations at all times. One never knew, after all, now did one no did one now did one.

Is it Spring??

Today was one of those days.

You know.

The days in February, when you are just starting to think that winter is never going to end and you're never going to warm up and you can't remember what it feels like to wear less than 3 layers of clothes, and then out of nowhere it's warm enough to wear a light jacket without the fear of frostbite and hypothermia. It's warm enough to go out and instead of rushing through the biting cold, it's okay to stop and enjoy the blue sky dotted with clouds, the slightly too chilly breeze, the warm moments in the sun, and the light sent of spring on its way.

So in honor of those days in February like today, I thought I would post a Ted Kooser poem that fits quite well. I know its not quite late February yet but it's getting close.

Late February
Ted Kooser

The first warm day,
and by mid-afternoon
the snow is no more
than a washing
strewn over the yards,
the bedding rolled in knots
and leaking water,
the white shirts lying
under the evergreens.
Through the heaviest drifts
rise autumn’s fallen
bicycles, small carnivals
of paint and chrome,
the Octopus
and Tilt-A-Whirl
beginning to turn
in the sun. Now children,
stiffened by winter
and dressed, somehow,
like old men, mutter
and bend to the work
of building dams.
But such a spring is brief;
by five o’clock
the chill of sundown,
darkness, the blue TVs
flashing like storms
in the picture windows,
the yards gone gray,
the wet dogs barking
at nothing. Far off
across the cornfields
staked for streets and sewers,
the body of a farmer
missing since fall
will show up
in his garden tomorrow,
as unexpected
as a tulip.

The Chinese New Year Parade in Chinatown

The Definition of a Stranger

By Idra Novey

Person not a member
of a group. A visitor,
guest, or the breast
that brushes your arm
on the subway. Person
with whom you've had
no acquaintance but who's taken
your rocking chair
from the curbside
and curls up in it
and closes her eyes.
Person in line
behind you now, waiting
for a glass of water,
or of whiskey, of elixir.
Person logging online
at the same second
from the Home Depot in Lima.
Or in search of the Dalai Lama.
Person not privy or party
to a decision, edict, et cetera,
but who's eaten
from the same fork
at the pizzeria
and kissed your wilder sister
on New Year's. Person assigned
to feed the tiger at the zoo
where you slipped your hand
once
into the palm
of somebody else's father.

Where Would You Like to Wake Up?

Fifty People, One Question: Brooklyn from Crush + Lovely on Vimeo.

Happy New Year!

My New Year's Resolution

We make New Year's Resolutions every year hoping to improve ourselves. I've never really been interested in making them because most people focus on bad attributes they wish to change and I have always felt that it was too negative. But I think a resolution can focus on positive aspects too. I'm not going to quit anything this year. I'm going to continue to enjoy my life and the people around me. I'm going to make a point to do something new every week; to explore new places and ideas; read as many books as possible; spend as much time with the people I love; eat steak when I want to; drink red wine when I can; go for walks and runs as often as possible.

I resolve to experience every moment of every day of the year 2009 as fully as possible. I want to feel everything.

The Moon and the Yew Tree

By Sylvia Plath

This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility
Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place.
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky --
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection
At the end, they soberly bong out their names.

The yew tree points up, it has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believe in tenderness -
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.

I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars
Inside the church, the saints will all be blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness - blackness and silence.