When I was young I called a rock
a kiss and planted it on the temple
of a friend, hard. And while he was lying
unconscious, bleeding, I said he was
only in love. Sartre told us that
all objects are space we chose to name.
The weight and shape of a sleeping baby
is the thirsty silhouette of a hawk’s beak.
A handful of sand is a stranger
at the far end of the bar. Sartre himself
was the cutout of a bat in the pitch
nights of hell, like us, calibrated
by what we bump against in the dark,
nothing on nothing, a chalk outline
at the crime scene. And this
that you are reading is a silent sketch
of spite or better, abandonment,
an open door, a deep black forest
bristling in the core of the earth.
A person’s authentic nature is a series of shifting, variegated planes that establish themselves as he relates to different people; it is created by and appears within the framework of his interpersonal relationships. --Philip K. Dick
Life is a train of moods like a string of beads, and, as we pass through them, they prove to be many-colored lenses which paint the world their own hue…Temperament is the iron wire on which the beads are strung. --Ralph Waldo Emerson
A man has as many social selves as there are individuals who recognize him. --William James
usher - climax (prod. by diplo). this doesn't sound like usher. it's way too restrained. he's not trying nearly hard enough to convince you of his earnestness. this underselling, ironically, makes the whole proposition that much more potent.
Coming through the Loop in one of those midday rush hours that sometimes hits the Green Line. Suddenly our car falls silent and we're listening to a father explain how birds can't burp, so they can't eat anything with air in it.
Sun falls in slants along the car and we wait, for a moment as rapt and open as his two girls.
"You mean like pop?" the older one asks. She's maybe seven? Children's ages are hard to pin down. She's wearing some kind of generic shirt with sparkly letters on front. Sagging striped leggings. The younger one balances, bloblike, on his lap.
"Yeah, just like that."
"They can't burp?" She's suspicious.
"Yeah, so no gas. Or else they'll die."
She gets quiet, folded into herself a little, hands clenched in her lap. We hold our breath. He goes on, careful, casually. "I had a bird once, a parrot. His name was George."
"George?” the eldest says.
“Well that's not a very birdlike name!”
"I wouldn’t call it George. I would call it...Birdy!"
And there it was. In the decisiveness of her tone and the childishness of her answer and the way he pulled her in with one arm. Their entire future. We sort of relaxed our attention, turning back to books and ipods and city outside, knowing that he would never get tired of her. Never stop giving his tenderness and time, because she needed them. That between them there was this indelible love, because she was the same as him, an ambulatory part of him.