Browsing articles tagged with " life"

I love Stephanie Georgopulos

By Josh  //  Uncategorized  //  No Comments

She is beyond spectacular.

See example below:

I’m Tired Of Reading About Us

I’m tired of reading about us: the nuance and complexity of our fusion spilled out in black and white like this sort of thing happens every day, to everyone. I resent the way Davis exposes the quiet superiority you feel over me and turns it up to volume ten; I loathe Franzen for holding a mirror up to my eagerness, reflecting how obvious it is to the rest of the world and how obvious it is to you. I hate Sedaris for exploiting every night the city breathed differently because you and I were moving through it together, why would he tell everyone about that? Our insecurities and vulnerable parts typed up and mass-produced and handled by commuters and students and pedants, it’s exhausting.

And I can’t even turn on the radio anymore without hearing our stories stretched out over sound waves; one band asking if you’re going to leave and a second, more confident voice insisting you’re capable of loving me if you’d only try and one more still that urges us to be young, to embrace our infant blood and each other and it’s no wonder you feel smothered, no wonder this is moving too quickly. It’s all we can think about, all we can hear, all this noise.

When we turn on the television to witness two better-looking versions of us recite our affections almost verbatim, understudies learned in pillow talk. When we rent an old film and there we are, ancient characters created preemptively to act out our arguments like someone knew we were going to happen before we were so much as a thought to anyone, let alone to each other. When we go to the movies and watch paid actors mimic the eyes and the lips and the hands on a big screen while strangers take voyeuristic pleasure in knowing the curve our two bodies create. When the audience applauds or cries or laughs at our intricacies and I have no choice but to feel naked.

We are either the world’s greatest muses or its most common lovers — this is what I think whenever I read these words or hear these songs or watch these images — so I instead imagine the missing parts that have yet to be written: the way your body smells after two days, the taste of the back of your teeth and other places most will never find their tongues, the perfect sour of your breath after a too-long night that lasted just the perfect amount of time. I imagine the static that forms in my stomach and courses through every capillary whenever you brush against me accidentally and the texture of your favorite sweater and the militant veins that protrude from your arms like they’re dying to be noticed, touched. When I think about these things — the symphony of color in your eyes and what might be happening behind them — I know they haven’t got us completely figured out. I know that some things belong to only us.


Wild Warsan Shire Goodness

By Josh  //  Uncategorized  //  No Comments

Someone who gets me pointed me to this today. It’s not the first time I’ve read it, but it has been a while, and I want to remember it.

you are a horse running alone
and he tries to tame you
compares you to an impossible highway
to a burning house
says you are blinding him
that he could never leave you
forget you
want anything but you
you dizzy him, you are unbearable
every woman before or after you
is doused in your name
you fill his mouth
his teeth ache with memory of taste
his body just a long shadow seeking yours
but you are always too intense
frightening in the way you want him
unashamed and sacrificial
he tells you that no man can live up to the one who
lives in your head
and you tried to change didn’t you?
closed your mouth more
tried to be softer
less volatile, less awake
but even when sleeping you could feel
him travelling away from you in his dreams
so what did you want to do love
split his head open?
you can’t make homes out of human beings
someone should have already told you that
and if he wants to leave
then let him leave
you are terrifying
and strange and beautiful
something not everyone knows how to love.


Awestruck By Incredible Writing…

I ran across this piece written by Jimmy Chen. His ability to choose words is astounding.
His sentiments are profound as well in his Internet Like Story.

Just in case it gets removed from the site it’s copied below as well:

Internet Like Story
FEB. 15, 2012 By JIMMY CHEN
In 2002, I published a story online at a rather popular website. That same day, at around 3:30 p.m., I received an email from who would become my first girlfriend. I can still see the subject heading, bolded with mystery: hi. “Who are you?” the email read, which began a six month correspondence, until I moved in with her. First it was emails, then gradually, with worn out fingers and softened hearts, phone calls. This was before texting. The first time I called her at 7:02 p.m., two minutes late from our agreed upon time, she said with a tiny voice that she had been staring at her phone waiting for its light to shine. I was that light.

This was also before wi-fi, when having internet at your home was sort of a “big deal,” like only .com-ers or very well adjusted yuppies had it, and so I — unemployed at the time, with grave and unsound artistic ventures — went to the public library two or three times a day eagerly and obsessively checking my hotmail for the latest installment of our wordy courtship. Seeing her name, swollen, bold with hope; clicking on it, holding my breath at her words, until rested assured that things were fine. Very lonely people tend to find each other, like a split atom trying to be whole again. Yes, it was sad, but wonderful.

She kept our entire correspondence in a folder and printed it out for me upon my arrival. It was the size of a novel manuscript, a complete ream of paper. Backwards meta, we read it together in bed. I’ll fast forward here and simply say that “life” happened. Or, insert the scatological expletive. We lived together for a year, she broke up with me, I moved out. Simple stuff here. Turns out we just liked each other. If you had asked me to recount what happened back then, I would have typed you another novel, but today, ten years later, I can only spare you these little sentences. Feelings die, and when they come back to life, they are less angry and more tired.

We broke up during Friendster, as I remember obsessively checking her friends’ comments in order to gather details of her life to fully torture myself with. Her friends, it seemed, corroborated scripted comments directed at me. We somewhat made up on Myspace, an exchange of two or three quick cordial messages noting how we were. Too much time has passed for me to friend her on Facebook, though I occasionally find her profile, just to keep up with how she looks, where she lives, etc. Her face is the same one I looked into at the airport — the magazine not-being-read in her lap, the getting up and walking towards me, the soft smile before the hug, the hug before the kiss, the kiss before the breath from which it came was done.


In 2012, today, I publish a piece of non-fiction at a rather popular website. At around 3:30 p.m., I may receive a “like” from someone, her disqus avatar a tiny portrait floating as a raft on the sea of this white background, above the flotsam and jetsam of comments. I will click the link to her twitter, or tumblr, or whatever, to glean her impossible somethingness — that imposition of one’s nothingness — taking into morose consideration how this picture is likely self-curated, the best out of a set of half-a-dozen pictures taken that night, for the very purpose of extending her tiny effigy into this world, in her room, her macbook’s tiny cam the unblinking cyclops she is currently in a relationship with.

Ongoing romantic failures with those whom I’ve met online by way of my writing will flash quickly through my head, like some manic multi-frame animated .gif repeating in an ennui loop. A young woman recently said that I’m not the writer I am online: less confident, less humorous, less sexual, less thoughtful, less glib, more just me. My heart and erection sank. Perhaps every word ever writ is fiction. Or, truth is oddly difficult to mime.

Things were different back then, I was less broken, and so was the internet. It was just a baby; now it’s an angry teen. Tonight I’ll go back to all my likes, like a sick dating site only I’m taking part in. It’s easy to obsess about strangers. You just pour nothingness outward, as if, through some accident in the universe, that very act could somehow fill you. I will look for warm clues scattered behind her — the blurry spines of books I sort of recognize; the posters of vaguely alternative bands everyone knows too well; the clothes hanging in her closet I can almost touch and smell; the plant she nurtures in place of me, its soil darkening with care — as if the mystery of why she liked this, why she liked me, could ever be solved.


Pick two. But I want all 3…

By Josh  //  life, Uncategorized  //  No Comments

How come no one ever told me life was this way:

Note (5/24/11): I think I found all three of these characteristics in one person. Her name is Diane.


Words of Wisdom From Unlikely Places

By Josh  //  deeper stuff, life  //  No Comments

So I’m browsing the interwebs, looking at one of my friends Facebooks, which led me to their Tumblr. He had a post featuring a video of David Ramirez.
I like the video and so I went to check out his site. While on there I checked out a blog post he’d made, and what I read was very striking to me.

The last entry I wrote has been heavy on my heart the past 24 hours. I’m realizing (slowly) that I’m not discontent with my place in the art community by rather my place in the world. I wear the statement “Music is my life” like a t-shirt. Casual. I have no quams with the statement when the reality is that I should. I’ve refused to accept so many great things into my existence because I fear they will disrupt my path. There is nothing casual about this. My attitude towards many “distactions” will lead me to live an empty life. That truth is a hard one to acknowledge. I’ve held on to the lesson I hear over an over that as long as I do what I love I will be happy. If you fall into that same place, hear me now… That is a lie. Here is why. That philosophy is wrapped up in nothing but ourselves and when we (I) pursue living in this way we (I) am not living at all. I’m simply only breathing. I wonder if as a 26 year old man it is too late to turn around. We develop patterns and at some point those patterns become us.

I’ve always said I want to be a great writer but maybe I should learn first how to be a great human. I pray that it is not too late but that, like a rebellious teenager, it’s just a phase.

Wow. I’ve re-read it several times, and each time I’m dumbstruck by how raw and piercing those words are.


Welcome to the beginning of proof I existed.

By Josh  //  deeper stuff, life  //  No Comments

This weekend was graduation time for all of the local high schools.  Hearing people talking about that had me promptly pondering my graduation, and more importantly where life’s taken me since that time.

I then felt frail and very temporary.  This life is so short, and time really does fly by.

To top things off, this morning I stumbled upon one of my favorite essays turned music video (Baz Lurhman’s Everybody’s Free shown below).  I spent the whole time watching that video thinking about how I can’t definitively  say that I am and have lived my life to the fullest, and even if I felt that I have I have no way to go back later and see where I’ve gone.

My memory is poor and I suspect with age it will only tarnish more, so I’m going to try and keep track of things in this way… via a blog.  I’m hoping to treat it as a diary more than a blog.  I don’t expect too many people to find their way here, and I’m okay with that.

If you happen to stumble onto this site, enjoy?

Quotes I Like…

Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle. ~Plato

We have two ears and one mouth so that we can listen twice as much as we speak. ~Epictetus

Anyone who trades liberty for security, deserves neither liberty nor security. ~Benjamin Franklin

Men never do evil so completely and cheerfully as they do it from religeous conviction. ~Blaise Pascal

When a person is down in the world, an ounce of help is better than a pound of preaching. ~Edward G. Bulwer-Lytton