imaginaryimageblog:

A seal in a tuxedo flopping into your party uninvited and mixing fancy cocktails for all your guests, he’s knocking over like everything.

danieleastman:

“What are you listening to?” the boy asked. He was too young to know better so I tried not to hold it against him.
“It’s Elliott Smith.” I answered.
“Oh.” His cubby jaw slacked under his fat cheeks and empty eyes. “Why does he sound sad?”
“Well, he was a sad man. That’s why.”
“But why was he sad?”…

God bless you, Daniel Eastman!

I drink your milkshake! I DRINK IT UP! (Taken with instagram)

My answer to everything. Ever.

It was along the banks of a muddy creek bed where I found my Lord. How I ended up in that godforsaken place is inconsequential: I was there, lonesome, for a time, mired in muck, bleeding freely from my head and guts, legs broke and coming to terms with my past transgressions, to which there were many, also inconsequential.

I spent my days cussing the sky and the trees and the silty, stagnate water refusing to wet my mouth. My nights: wailing. Like a little child, lost.

Then: the lord, the Lord, the LORD!

That’s all you need to know.

- Chester Worley to the Governor of South Carolina on the Eve of His Execution, 1923.

(Culled from tweets posted 4/24/2012)

theleanover:

Diane, I’m holding in my hand a small box of chocolate bunnies.
Excuse me, is there something wrong, young pretty girl?
It’s not the first time, it won’t be the last, but I’m in that doghouse again.
Your milk is gonna get cool…

Excuse me, is there something wrong, young pretty girl?
They found…

This is the song that made me fall completely in love with Damien Jurado. I had promised @MmeSurly and @JoeVelouria I would post it months ago. Here it is.

The hours leading up to the anniversary of the death of a loved one really begins to take on a Stations of the Cross-type feel:

“This is when my mom called…”

“This was when the insensitive surgeon came in…”

“This was the last time I heard my father’s voice…”

“This is when I decided that praying for restored health was futile…”

“This is when the nurse urged us to stand by his side…”

“This is when they stopped chest compressions…”

“This is the feel of lifeless skin…”

“This is me, a fatherless son…”

(From a series of Tweets I did coming up on the first anniversary of my father’s death.)

Now, there was this time that
I seemed to have forgotten; I
am certain that it was important. I had to
become something new, scared, seeing
death as a chance to learn; learning the
destroyer of stability,
of fathers, of
worlds.

The squeal of tires and the smell of burnt rubber always remind me of the time I killed my friend, Henry, in Middle School.

Running from the road, I first hear the squeal of the tires, then a yelp from Henry and, finally, that awful thud. In the second it took…

to turn towards the road, I became a man. A flash of blue from the still moving Ford Taurus and Henry’s body flopping through the air…

pausing, and falling. The wet crack of skull on cement and the gunning of an engine filled my eyes with tears and my mouth with vomit.

As the Taurus sped away I approached Henry’s unmoving body. There was blood everywhere, already attracting flies. I saw skull and panicked.

Being twelve years old the notions of consequences hadn’t cemented themselves into my brain. I felt nothing as I grabbed Henry’s hand and…

…started pulling him toward the ditch.

The bus wasn’t due for another twenty minutes and it was still mostly dark, so there was no sense of urgency on my part. Just a need to get rid

…of this body. So I pulled Henry to the wall overlooking the murky gloop of the drainage ditch and pushed him in. He tumbled.

As the body hit the bottom I could’ve swore I heard a whimper. But the bus came, and I grabbed my bag and boarded. Leaving Henry.

Years of therapy has told me that that whimper was just the last of Henry’s air escaping,but I know it wasn’t. I left Henry broken,but alive

…to live out his last moments staring into the grey sky, crying for someone, anyone, to save him.

Weeks later, as they pulled Henry’s body from the thick mud of the drainage ditch, a part of me was relieved. The phantom itch finally scratched.

(From a series of tweets from September/October 2011.)