Those who have come to our booth go.
Those who have seen the television people! Thank me after all. Go. 

I lined with pretty! Wonder if in time the time
You start the program everyone.

I wonder if it took how long to me when admission of smiling super conference last year.

It is not at all warm and cold wind. Solar wind speed is
I seem to have become.

When will I wonder
If that is more of a smile than meeting?

I wish I was pleasant person who have come
To see. Tomorrow is my best regards everyone.

It was a wolf I opened the door I thought
whether white hand of the mother. The recovery
of the flag of life that has been studded until now.
I’ve gotten used to gradually Monday.

Traveling aboard the huge cave cricket, drinking
session named meeting with rivals to write a worthy opponent
now is not
it does it by
close to the clothes of the same color! Although
would be supposed to be uniform!

I wonder
I’m year-old have look two or three steps ahead
soon. In cross-eyed.

We’re gonna became a member of the members’ bar. Tofu. I saw a very flashy aunt in Roppongi. I thought the bird or of fire.

Oh, the door to hit on to such as oil king of Arab … I wish I was anywhere. You can stop the death of makeup on a train!

The tummy hurts when it comes
in the morning. And my head hurts when it is night.
It does not mean you
do not wound. Only thing long missing.
I was also able to meet Mr. candle.

In theory, if you want to run on the water
should I put out before the other leg
before one leg goes down. Feeling
also recommended the same, before you sink.

I go on a journey to collect seven color ball security
are eating snack breakfast and lunch
also skipping. I thought today, to be able to see candles
but it was tomorrow.

Love is there even flare up violently and cast me 10 times
in a loud voice so that the fire does not disappear
standing in front of the candle. By all means become
on the way … I.

Sun visor train crowded
aunt standing in behind
come with the butt back as woodpecker.
Stomach is sounding much like that … If you have died anyway.

From now on, we will continue to digest
all at the same time DVD you have not seen
CD you have not heard, this not read
a dessert you do not eat!

You have work to draw the eye to eye lid
since morning but no one has noticed.

I don’t know how many writers are willing to confess to their private preparatory rituals before they get down to putting something on paper. But I imagine that all artists and all writers in that moment before they begin their working day or working night have that area between beginning and preparation, and however brief it is, there is something about it votive and humble and in a sense ritualistic. Individual writers have different postures, different stances, even different physical attitudes as they stand or sit over their blank paper, and in a sense, without doing it, they are crossing themselves; I mean, it’s like the habit of Catholics going into water: you cross yourself before you go in. Any serious attempt to try to do something worthwhile is ritualistic. I haven’t noticed what my own devices are. But I do know that if one thinks a poem is coming on—in spite of the noise of the typewriter, or the traffic outside the window, or whatever—you do make a retreat, a withdrawal into some kind of silence that cuts out everything around you. What you’re taking on is really not a renewal of your identity but actually a renewal of your anonymity, so that what’s in front of you becomes more important than what you are. Equally—and it may be a little pretentious-sounding to say it—sometimes if I feel that I have done good work I do pray, I do say thanks. It isn’t often, of course. I don’t do it every day. I’m not a monk, but if something does happen I say thanks because I feel that it is really a piece of luck, a kind of fleeting grace that has happened to one. Between the beginning and the ending and the actual composition that goes on, there is a kind of trance that you hope to enter where every aspect of your intellect is functioning simultaneously for the progress of the composition. But there is no way you can induce that trance.

I love this. Derek Walcott talks about the creative act in a way I have never been able to illustrate. I don’t know his work, but having somehow come across this interview I am definitely curious. I am not Catholic, but I feel the sense of ritual and reverence he talks about here, and can only hope I would relate to his work just as much.

(Source: theparisreview.org)

Appropriated from Twitter with minor editing.

This is horrible. Nearly half of the Dolby Theatre lobby is covered in standing water from a bathroom flood. I feel like the entire staff might have just exploded. The homophobia was bad too, btw. 

Ok…this could be good. Things can go wrong when you buy art records from China. It’s like 2046 in 2013. Well the set is pretty at least. Jack has no idea where he is. Ears are weird, we have failed and earth has died.  

Is Samuel L. Jackson wearing a wet suit under that jacket? Shitty cut off. I hate fragrance commercials, not enough misogyny yet. Where is the blackout when we need it? 

I’m confused with Seth’s hairline. When’s the last time a costume award went to something that wasn’t a period piece? See previous misogyny tweet.

This Bond sequence is like a bad PowerPoint presentation. Coconut cupcakes with chocolate buttercream icing, this is all a little painful so far. This bond tribute. I think I saw it at Disney world. Halle’s high and drunk brain-melting audio issues. I need to set my mom up with one or the other this week.

Homework. Right!?! haha xo Awesome work – congrats! We are so proud! Okay I know it makes me a bad “feminist” but I really enjoyed the boob song. You’re not missing anything Detroit. Jaws and they threw in the physical useless tools. Today looked good. Good enough for me. 

Think of how many people signed off on these jokes. C’mon big money, but that is a really poor fitting costume. I’d love to see Beyonce do Chicago. Love her!  

Aaaaaaaaaaand I’m out. Nothing makes you miss the Golden Globes like having to sit through the Oscars. Wolverine does not sing. Beards are winning the day the music should have died. I am crying already.

Tonight I learned all sound editors have long blonde hair. I mean, I like the ethos of form fitting content but…not everything is a widescreen movie, right? …followed by Nazis? Pathetic. Radio always wins. Ok I’m becoming a sound engineer, these guys are what I want to look like when I’m 50: blond, long and unkempt.

Nipples won the master at Oceanside yesterday. They always do. We then stole their ideas and made millions. Damn Adele. Did she even wash her hair?! Worst speech ever, damn it. The neck never lies. 

When my husband indulges me in nice hand bling, I know he really loves me. The ability to fantasize is the ability to grow melting icebergs. Anne Hathaway said, “Your unicorn story is not engaging, you can tell who’s doing coke.” 

The grass is lace
On the smooth of my feet

She is whisper
Gladness is her heartbeat
Hand of honey held to me

I found something
Rubbing it; intrigued
Plucked a string and hummed

Make a whistle of the blades
Wet with comfort; a kind of greed
We are we, are we are, we

A song of cicada’s
Tossed salt in the sky
Still, winter, still, humming

Hide-and-seek moon
Soaked twilight
Each drip borrowed from the sun

(circa 2005)

You sit there
Pretending to read
A book
Agonizing every glance
It has become
Apparent that loss 
In your eyes
An outcome of defeat
Breath after breath
Stop after stop
You want more than
To be just a passenger
On a train 

A poem for @sjprohaska

What doth the mind say?
“Surely, we must drink up.”
The promise of clarity in a ceramic cup

Earth never closer or more giving
Caramel, molasses, steam and heat
The veil of fatigue dissolved upon passing my teeth