{ yesterday's tweets. }

( my milkshake brings all the tweets to the yard )

LoudTwitter, innit?

{ we're burning down the highway skyline. }

Heeeeeeey, happy birthday zeitheist! You are now officially twenteen; go forth and blow some shit up. For serious. Now is the best time for such skulduggery. In other news, please continue to be your wonderful self, witty, profound, and downright nonsensical in all the best ways. I still think you beat on yourself way too much for someone so delightful and talented and kindly; I still think you are a genuinely remarkable person despite/because of that. And now you are ~*published*~ and you should milk that for its worth, girl.

Have a great day. Have some cake and enjoy the mess I sent your way. (My apologies to whoever does the vacuuming).

--

In quasi-related news, I have another driving lesson this morning. Oh gosh. OH GOSH.

{ Marilyn Hacker: An Essay on Departures. }

An Essay on Departures
by Marilyn Hacker

And when you leave, and no one's left behind,
do you leave a cluttered room, a window framing
a zinc roof, other mansard windows? Do you
leave a row of sycamores, a river
that flows in your nocturnal pulse, a moon
sailing late-risen through clouds silvered by
the lights flung up from bridges? Do you leave
the wicker chairs the café owner stacks
at half-past-midnight while the last small clutch
of two girls and a boy smoke and discuss
what twenty-year-olds in cafés discuss
past midnight, with no war on here? You leave
the one and then the other, the all-night
eight-aisles-of-sundries with a pharmacy
cloned six times in one mile on upper Broadway.
Everywhere you're leaving something, leaving
no one, leaving as a season fades,
leaving the crisp anticipation of
the new, before its gold drops on the rain-
slick crossings to the walkways over bridges,
the schoolyard's newly painted porte-cochère:
remembered details. You're no longer there.
What's left when you have left, when what is left is
coins on the table and an empty cup?
An August lapse begins; the shutters drop
and lock, whatever follows is conjecture.
The sound feels final, punitive, a trap
shutting its jaws, though when the selfsame structure
was rolled up mornings, it was hopeful noise,
a reprieve from insomnia, a day's
presence opening possibility.
As you leave the place, you bring the time
you spent there to a closed parenthesis.
Now it is part of that amorphous past
parceled into flashes, slide-vignettes.
You'll never know if just what you forget's
the numinous and right detail, the key—
but to a door that is no longer yours,
glimpse of a morning-lit interior's
awakening silhouette, with the good blue
sky reflected on the tall blue walls,
then shadow swallows what was/wasn't true,
shutters the windows, sheathes the shelves in dust,
retains a sour taste and discards the kiss,
clings to the mood stripped of its narrative.
You take the present tense along. The place
you're leaving stops, dissolves into a past
in which it may have been, or it may not
have been (corroborate, but it's still gone)
the place you were, the moment that you leave.

{ OH YES. }

{ if you are so inclined, I will take missives in haiku-form. }

GUUUUUUUUYS! (BELATED) ANNUAL POSTCARD EXCHANGE!

Comments are screened if you're interested; drop an address, or if I already have it, some indication of yes, these shenanigans are appealing to me. MARVELLOUS.

--

For newcomers, this goes as follows: I send y'all a postcard and some time in the future you send me one in return so that I can add to my collection, hurrah! I started this as a way to fill my walls at university but I like the epistolary nature of the exchange so I'd like to keep on keeping on.

But yay! Annual postcard exchange!

--

I feel like I should add a theme - the picture should be of a certain ilk, or the message. But honestly, that feels like too much work and I'm too lazy. So. Yes.