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"You have those friends who will agree they should make a movie about themselves and then those friends who will be strangely resistant." — Ira Windshield
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"All your favorite turning
players, up, as mediocre
coaches. Old man! Old man!" — John Vegetableman
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"The contemporary proliferation of stories and narratives and Facebook newsfeeds proves to us how atomic our experiences are, how unwhole and part, instead, of the vast dust, but this generally has the ricochet effect of making us more fiercely announce ourselves, declare our memoirs, “everyone has a story to tell.” Ironically, our emotional reaction to being one among many is to fearfully insist on our oneness. Whereas Shakespeare’s characters—faced with a much-expanding world and a similar sense of losing their own importance—recognized the liberation of floating above their feelings. Seeing their sadness as part of the vast experience of sadness, the sadness dust. If there’s one thing history is good for, it’s for proving that your feelings are just examples of feelings. Tweet that shit. Also see: you’re not the waves, you’re the ocean, and everybody’s the ocean. It’s worth asking if this is just a way to escape the idea of "deeply" held and "deeply" felt and "deeply" examined "feelings," but it’s also worth counterasking if all that presumed depth just represents one model, and if there might be an alternative model of lifting out of yourself and seeing yourself constellated and suffused into all feelings everywhere and allowing yourself the wonderful "feeling" of being a pure observer, which feels like knowing yourself in the world versus just knowing yourself." — Italics Calvino
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"Ain’t an hour of night people usually call
I used your old birthday card to kill a bug on the wall
If I let you up, will you let me down?
Ah forget it, your breath it just runs me around
Two lonely bodies that shudder with proof
Trying not to be drastic or stupid or blue" — Cities Van Sandt
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"I wasn’t born to stare out of this attic
Like some pensive ad for drugs that fix your head
I have seen the quarry where the sculptor cashed in
Drove his riding mower over the edge
I don’t sleep as well on buses as I used to
The novelty has faded quite a bit
I think every sunburn’s melanoma
I no longer care about my zits
Time I think it finds me in my shoulders
Time I think it drags me by the eyes
Remember o remember what it felt like on the boulder
Leaping and presuming water down there in the night" — Stephin Luck
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"Sitting with a tissue to your nosebleed
Waiting for a bus beneath a flag
Some asshole on a unicycle scolds me
Pretending that his sweat don't make him gag
The work will not take place in a montage
won't feel like a montage when it's done
The work will not take place in a montage
It's just a way they fake to place a song" — Stuart Murmarina
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"Horatio was paid sixty thousand American dollars a year to sit in a corner and think about barbecue sauce. Any corner was fine. His sponsor was not strict. A corporation that grew with a modest consistency that resembled a teal-colored wall phone five years out of date, Horatio’s sponsor offered a hummably vague range of services under the mesh of what they called “efficiency granularization” and “resource demarcation.” They had screens that listed words from Horatio’s thoughts. Of the sixty thousand American dollars they paid him, they wrote off 103% in tax categories that overlapped research and charity. On Fridays they made sure he’d A) been in a corner and B) thought, in this corner, about barbecue sauce.
Horatio’s job often took him abroad. Not at first. At first, he visited only American ...
*Korean bbq, chinese bbq
*is ketchup bbq sauce?
" — notes from a new story by George Seenders
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