One of Chris’s favorite things to say to me is: “So it’s a long story then?” Because it always is. Because I’m always more long winded than short. Because I rarely have less than a million words for anything I think, see, or feel. But I have no words for this. None. So I’ll use
Browsing category blogging
“If I had a world of my own, everything would be nonsense. Nothing would be what it is, because everything would be what it isn’t. And contrary wise, what is, it wouldn’t be. And what it wouldn’t be, it would. You see?” – Alice
Buffy, You know what I find exhilarating? Reading something like this: The light of our cigarettes Went and came in the gloom. Flynn: Photo Courtesy of Three Kinds of Yes It is a simile with “like” suppressed: Pound called it an equation, meaning not a redundancy, A equals A, but a generalization of unexpected exactness.
Every literature or creative writing course I’ve ever taken has addressed this topic: Britishness. What does it mean to be British? Do we do the same thing in The States? I don’t think so. (I never did.) But I’ve never taken a literature/writing course on U.S. soil. So, maybe… Zadie Smith was the first writer
MIT OpenCourseWare (OCW) is a web-based publication of virtually all MIT course content – lecture notes, exams, videos, etc. It’s not a degree-granting or credit-bearing initiative but it is a publication of the course materials. Which works well for someone like me who has no practical use for things like the Essentials of Geophysics but
I’m just gonna say it. I’m not a fan of country music. But folk revival and bluegrass are in my blood. When we were married in the North of England, The Euro managed to find a bluegrass band for the reception. Dueling banjos, Foggy Mountain Breakdown, a little bit of something from the O’Brother soundtrack.
“Pranab Chakraborty wasn’t technically my father’s younger brother. He was a fellow Bengali from Calcutta who had washed up on the barren shores of my parents’ social life in the early seventies, when they lived in a rented apartment in Central Square and could number their acquaintances on one hand. But I had no real
“And in this city where I grew up I get lost if I’m on my own. This isn’t home. It makes me giddy because it feels like home and is not. It makes my heart tremble and my head spin.” – Saladin Chamcha (Satanic Verses, Salman Rushdie) — I sat the LSAT ten years ago
Yesterday I spent the day playing with the four year olds. Please call this one Wendy Moira Angela Darling. She insists. I also ate a cow. It’ll take a week to sweat out. And probably a trip to the cardiologist. Still…good times. moo
Flynn just sent me an email. It was wonderful. It was this… A Dream In a deserted place in Iran there is a not very tall stone tower that has neither door nor window. In the only room (with a dirt floor and shaped like a circle) there is a wooden table and a bench.
This short has been getting a lot of play time around the house lately – since my sister-in-law urged every one to “Vote for Maybe One Day by Chris Cottam” because “It’s great. And he is my lovely friend.” Well, we did. And, it is. Beautiful. Really. Everything from the lighting to the writing. Especially
All things fade and quickly turn to myth; quickly too utter oblivion drowns them. But what in any case is everlasting memory? Utter emptiness.
