What’s My Line? -Salvador Dali
June 29, 2012, 10:33 pm
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1933 letter to his 11-year-old daughter Scottie
June 20, 2012, 7:14 am
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Things to worry about:

Worry about courage

Worry about Cleanliness

Worry about efficiency

Worry about horsemanship

Worry about…

Things not to worry about:

Don’t worry about popular opinion

Don’t worry about dolls

Don’t worry about the past

Don’t worry about the future

Don’t worry about growing up

Don’t worry about anybody getting ahead of you

Don’t worry about triumph

Don’t worry about failure unless it comes through your own fault

Don’t worry about mosquitoes

Don’t worry about flies

Don’t worry about insects in general

Don’t worry about parents

Don’t worry about boys

Don’t worry about disappointments

Don’t worry about pleasures

Don’t worry about satisfactions

Things to think about:

What am I really aiming at?

How good am I really in comparison to my contemporaries in regard to:

(a) Scholarship

(b) Do I really understand about people and am I able to get along with them?

(c) Am I trying to make my body a useful instrument or am I neglecting it?

-F. Scott Fitzgerald



Jet- Tony Hoagland
June 19, 2012, 7:27 am
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Sometimes I wish I were still out
on the back porch, drinking jet fuel
with the boys, getting louder and louder
as the empty cans drop out of our paws
like booster rockets falling back to Earth

and we soar up into the summer stars.
Summer. The big sky river rushes overhead,
bearing asteroids and mist, blind fish
and old space suits with skeletons inside.
On Earth, men celebrate their hairiness,

and it is good, a way of letting life
out of the box, uncapping the bottle
to let the effervescence gush
through the narrow, usually constricted neck.

And now the crickets plug in their appliances
in unison, and then the fireflies flash
dots and dashes in the grass, like punctuation
for the labyrinthine, untrue tales of sex
someone is telling in the dark, though

no one really hears. We gaze into the night
as if remembering the bright unbroken planet
we once came from,
to which we will never
be permitted to return.
We are amazed how hurt we are.
We would give anything for what we have.


Definitions- Rudy Francisco
June 15, 2012, 6:35 pm
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How To Have A Zelda Fitzgerald Summer- Carrie Laski

The unpredictable days of May have wound to a close, which means those languorous June nights are upon us. Maybe it is that soft evening breeze scented with pink gin floating in from the south, or maybe a few notes of jazz dropping out of the neighbor’s open window, but the signs are definitely here: summer is on its way. Instead of rotting in front of Buffy reruns for the next couple months, these tips inspired by F. Scott’s muse herself will help you have the kind of summer they write novels about.

Do not work.

If this means quitting your job, put in your two weeks now. If this means simply not looking to end your current unemployed status, you’re off to a great start. The first step to having a summer worthy of the femme Fitzgerald is to have endless free time because you never know when you will need to make an appearance at a backyard soiree or skip town for a three-day bender. Bosses tend not to be very sympathetic to those who call off shifts due to the fact that they woke up in a different city and cannot possibly get on a train until the next day. Save yourself the hassle. Quit now.

Befriend someone with a country house.

If you happen to have a father who is a dignified Southern judge, skip this step. You already have a country house. If you don’t, it is critical that you find a friend who does because country estates are where you will get to wear all those hats you inexplicably bought over the past few years and be drunk in front of WASP families who have more secrets than they have marriages. You may even meet your summer beau here. If not, at least you’ll get to ride a horse, jump naked into a lake, go golfing, and eat things like crust-less tomato sandwiches. Oh, and you’ll be drunk the whole time, so don’t worry if those things don’t sound fun right now.

‘Yes’ is always the answer.

Do you think Zelda Fitzgerald married a literary hunk, lived in New York, Paris, and Antibes, and served as muse for some of the most enchanting novels of the time by saying she was “too tired to go out”? Doubtful. So when someone asks if you want to go for a drive, the answer is yes. Do you want to go dancing? Yes. Do you want to do a line of coke? Yes. Do you want another drink? Yes — as long as it’s clear. Only vodka, gin, light rum, and even tequila. Only these will fit the bill because when you stumble out onto a pristine lawn at dusk, the twinkling patio lights won’t reveal any stains on your pastel dress. In true Fitzgerald fashion you need to keep looking sharp from the time you roll out of bed at half past noon to the time you pour yourself back in at sunrise. Stock up on cucumber eye masks now.

Fall in love.

Catch his eye from across the glittering party. Look away, sip your Rosemary Collins, and continue your discussion of the new Elizabeth Von Arnim novel. When you sense his eyes are still clinging to you in your thigh-grazing beaded frock, look back and smile. Start a courtship that you have to justify to your friends who say it’s “ill-advised.” Stay dancing cheek-to-cheek long after the party is over and the bar has closed. Drink bottles of wine on the beach until the sun comes up. Have sex. A lot of it. Then realize it will never work and end things with a shouting match and shattered glassware. Never see him again. Until two weeks later when you start it all over.

Simple, right? Following these steps is guaranteed to win you a summer to remember. Your own side of paradise. If they seem difficult, that’s probably because you’re trying too hard.

(http://thoughtcatalog.com/2012/how-to-have-a-zelda-fitzgerald-summer/)



Love Poem- Dorothea Lasky
June 11, 2012, 10:13 pm
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The rain whistled.

A taxi brought me to your apartment building
And there I stood.

I had dreamed a dream
Of us in a bedroom.
The light shining upon us in white sheets.

You were singing me a song of your sailing days
And in the dream
I reached deep in you and pulled out a cardinal
Which in bright red
Flew out the window.

Sometimes when we talk
On the phone, I think to myself
That the deep perfect of your soul
Is what draws me to you.
But still what soul is perfect?
All souls are misshapen and off-colored.
Morning comes within a soul
And makes it obey another law
In which all souls are snowflakes.

Once at a funeral, a man had died
And with the prayers said, his soul flew up in a hurry
Like it had been let out of something awful.
It was strangely colored, that soul.
And it was a funny shape and a funny temperature.
As it blew away, all of us looking felt the cold.


Wedding Portrait- David Dominguez
June 11, 2012, 10:09 pm
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Yesterday afternoon, I hung a framed print in the living room—
a task that took two head-throbbing hours.
It’s a wedding portrait that we love: Frida and Diego Rivera.
I wonder how two people could consistently hurt each other,
but still feel love so deeply as their bones turned into dust?
Before Frida died, she painted a watermelon still life;
before his death, Diego did too.
I want to believe that those paintings were composed
during parallel moments because of their undying devotion.
If I close my eyes, I can see melon wedges left like
centerpieces except for the slice
Diego put on the table’s corner—
one piece of fruit pecked at by a dove
that passed through a window.
I know that I won’t be building a bookshelf anytime soon
and that the chances of me constructing a roll-top desk
are as slim as me building an Adirondack chair that sits plumb,
but I’m good with the spackle and putty knives in my tool belt.
The knots in my back might not be there
if I had listened to her suggestions,
and I could well have done without two hours of silence
over a few holes in the wall.
But somehow, life has its ways of working things out.
This afternoon, I shut the blinds,
turned off the TV, lights, and phone,
and massaged my wife’s feet to fight off a migraine—
her second one this week despite
the prophylactics and pain killers that we store in the breadbox.
For once, I’d like to experience what she feels:
nausea, blindness, and pain that strike
when the cranial vessels dilate,
fill with blood, leak, and make the brain swell.
Earlier, an MRI triggered the reaction as it mapped her head
with electrical current, gradient magnets, and radio waves
hammering her floundering eyes.
For now, we have our room, the bed frame, and the mattress
where she lies as I knead her toes.
Come nightfall, I hope that we’ll sit in the patio and watch
the breeze stirring the lemon, lime, and orange trees
that I planted along the back fence.
On certain nights, the moon turns our lawn
into green acrylic where we sip Syrah and mint tea
until all we know is the sound
of our breathing among the whispering leaves.