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You Are the Girl

No one must speak to you in the mornings.  This is the secret.  In the mornings when the people in your dreams are still packing their things, sliding their arms into sensible winter coats one by one, looking at you with eyes gone dark already.


Confession Books in Dubai.  Drip Date Café.  Ice skating and Al Nasr Cinema and crying when Mufasa died.  Your brother in a band called Evenly Odd.  The drummer, Wahid, couldn't afford the real deal so he used a little stool, the top of which was a round cushion covered over in tight blue pleather.  He had real drumsticks though.  And the sound was satisfying enough.  You can't remember for sure if you had a crush on Wahid for a while.  You suspect you had a crush on all your brother's friends for a while.  But you can remember he wrote the words “The Cars” all over his white canvas sneakers, over and over again, in big and small and tall and skinny letters.  “The Cars” and “The Cars” and “The Cars.”  You can remember you wanted to be a drummer.


It's important.  No one must speak to you in the mornings.

[nightingaleshiraz] [?]
[Via Giulio Cesare, Santa Marinella]
[mercoledì 28 ottobre 2015 ore 08:49:44] []

A Kind of Cheating: Scraps from Last October

You would imagine that a morning in which you wake up humming woohoo you're a miracle worker, might be a good morning.


Dreambit: Auri talking about guitar-frets, how he still likes them even if some people pooh-pooh.  A house with awesome records; he keeps finding finds and surprising us – wait till you hear this and everyone waits, everyone stops and waits for the opening bars and the moment when they know it.  On one song, I get it when she starts singing, that’s when I know.  It's later than it should be but it's before anyone else and I'm proud, hoping that he is too.  See? I'm your sister.  I get you.


It's not that the unexamined life is not worth living.  Life is always worth living for the person who's living it, even if he's not examining it.  Even if he's not aware of himself and the things that make him who and what he is, the things that don't, the things that matter, the things that won't.  It's just that I can't muster much interest, in that kind of person.

(Life is too short for mediocre conversations.)


On page seventeen of seventeen, you drink black tea with brown sugar.  With long-life milk that makes a color like you when you're home.


And yet another kind of pointless anger: When you stumble onto the fact, three months later, that some asshole did broadcast your mother's death on Facebook, after all.

[nightingaleshiraz] [?]
[Via Giulio Cesare, Santa Marinella]
[lunedì 26 ottobre 2015 ore 09:13:48] []

Because this week, she is coming in kaleidoscopic.

Because on Tuesday there will be Charles Simić, and maybe he will read this, maybe.  Because fall is a good time to talk about dreambooks and coatlessness.  Because it's a certain kind of time in this particular world.  Because it's October, and maybe also because for some of us there are more horrors these days, than the ones that have to do with Halloween.

Because tonight I found this, and it made me happy.

This too.

[nightingaleshiraz] [?]
[Via Giulio Cesare, Santa Marinella]
[domenica 25 ottobre 2015 ore 20:26:26] []