danagould:

Two years ago, I was performing at The Punchline in San Francisco, and Robin came to the show with our mutual friend, Dan Spencer.
This particular batch of material was the first time I had touched upon my then still-fresh divorce wounds, and big chunks of it were pretty dark. The next day, I got a text from a number I didn’t recognize. Whoever it was had obviously been to the show and knew my number, so I figured they would reveal themselves at some point and save me the embarrassment of asking who they were.
The Mystery Texter asked how I was REALLY doing. “You can’t fool me. Some of those ‘jokes’ aren’t ‘jokes.” By now I knew that whoever this was had been through what I was enduring, as no one else would know to ask, “What time of day is the hardest?”
He wanted to know how my kids were handling it, all the while assuring me that the storm, as bleak as it was, would one day pass and that I was not, as I was then convinced, a terrible father for visiting a broken home upon my children.
I am not rewriting this story in retrospect to make it dramatic. I did not know who I was texting with. Finally, my phone blipped, and I saw, in a little green square, “Okay, pal. You got my number. Call me. I’ve been there. You’re going to be okay. - Robin.”
That is what you call a human being.

danagould:

Two years ago, I was performing at The Punchline in San Francisco, and Robin came to the show with our mutual friend, Dan Spencer.

This particular batch of material was the first time I had touched upon my then still-fresh divorce wounds, and big chunks of it were pretty dark. The next day, I got a text from a number I didn’t recognize. Whoever it was had obviously been to the show and knew my number, so I figured they would reveal themselves at some point and save me the embarrassment of asking who they were.

The Mystery Texter asked how I was REALLY doing. “You can’t fool me. Some of those ‘jokes’ aren’t ‘jokes.” By now I knew that whoever this was had been through what I was enduring, as no one else would know to ask, “What time of day is the hardest?”

He wanted to know how my kids were handling it, all the while assuring me that the storm, as bleak as it was, would one day pass and that I was not, as I was then convinced, a terrible father for visiting a broken home upon my children.

I am not rewriting this story in retrospect to make it dramatic. I did not know who I was texting with. Finally, my phone blipped, and I saw, in a little green square, “Okay, pal. You got my number. Call me. I’ve been there. You’re going to be okay. - Robin.”

That is what you call a human being.

(via karion)

Floor to ceiling doors coaxing the breeze off the Mississippi to join the dinner table, for morning coffee, an afternoon nap. Even closed and shuttered, hiding the modern convenience of air conditioning, still luring the same steady breeze from 1910, 1820, 1730, carrying history with it. Green, green plants thriving in the humidity so high even dry hair becomes always damp and always, always curly. Engulfed and damp and swamp, words that became of a singular meaning, worn as one wears a cloak, wears a rain cloud, wears a slight glow. 
[New Orleans, June 2014]

Floor to ceiling doors coaxing the breeze off the Mississippi to join the dinner table, for morning coffee, an afternoon nap. Even closed and shuttered, hiding the modern convenience of air conditioning, still luring the same steady breeze from 1910, 1820, 1730, carrying history with it. Green, green plants thriving in the humidity so high even dry hair becomes always damp and always, always curly. Engulfed and damp and swamp, words that became of a singular meaning, worn as one wears a cloak, wears a rain cloud, wears a slight glow. 

[New Orleans, June 2014]

(Source: Flickr / emilykatherine)

Change is messy & unruly. Two steps forward/five somersaults back. Like speaking a foreign language when all you want is to blurt everything out in your native tongue. We’ll get to the other shore, I think, but this right here is a note from the middle, the messy middle. If you’re in the messy middle, too, you’re not alone.

—Shauna Niequist, on instagram today (via pureblyss)

(via andnobodyknowsmyname)

texturism:

you’ll become known for doing what you do. it’s a simple saying, but it’s true…the only way to start being asked to do something you want to do is to start doing that thing on your own.

jonathan harris | via jennaswiss-miss [emphasis mine]

aaronmerrill:

GpoyPermission to drink more coffee: granted

aaronmerrill:

Gpoy

Permission to drink more coffee: granted

(Source: allheartcare)

bornagainfromtherhythm:

The Beautiful Flight Paths of Fireflies by Tsuneaki Hiramatsu

(via mrsmogulsays)

I wanted to see where beauty comes from
without you in the world, hauling my heart
across sixty acres of northeast meadow,
my pockets filling with flowers.
Then I remembered,
it’s you I miss in the brightness
and body of every living name:
rattlebox, yarrow, wild vetch.
You are the green wonder of June,
root and quasar, the thirst for salt.
When I finally understand that people fail
at love, what is left but cinquefoil, thistle,
the paper wings of the dragonfly
aeroplaning the soul with a sudden blue hilarity?
If I get the story right, desire is continuous,
equatorial. There is still so much
I want to know: what you believe
can never be removed from us,
what you dreamed on Walnut Street
in the unanswerable dark of your childhood,
learning pleasure on your own.
Tell me our story: are we impetuous,
are we kind to each other, do we surrender
to what the mind cannot think past?
Where is the evidence I will learn
to be good at loving?
The black dog orbits the horseshoe pond
for treefrogs in their plangent emergencies.
There are violet hills,
there is the covenant of duskbirds.
The moon comes over the mountain
like a big peach, and I want to tell you
what I couldn’t say the night we rushed
North, how I love the seriousness of your fingers
and the way you go into yourself,
calling my half-name like a secret.
I stand between taproot and treespire.
Here is the compass rose
to help me live through this.
Here are twelve ways of knowing
what blooms even in the blindness
of such longing. Yellow oxeye,
viper’s bugloss with its set of pink arms
pleading do not forget me.
We hunger for eloquence.
We measure the isopleths.
I am visiting my life with reckless plenitude.
The air is fragrant with tiny strawberries.
Fireflies turn on their electric wills:
an effulgence. Let me come back
whole, let me remember how to touch you
before it is too late.

—Stacie Cassarino, Summer Solstice
(via grammatolatry)

(via nogreatillusion)

I will not set fire to myself
to keep you warm.

—(via jennayliu)

(Source: havoicc, via mattnathanson)

Sunday in the city | Neighborhood stoops bathed in early June sunlight, I forgot. The spring semester was long and cold.

Out of habit, masked as routine, I took the subway to the library this morning, but got off early. Quickly, without thinking. The lights on the train suddenly too dim, too much not-the-sun. Even the thought of the library too claustrophobic.

Lower Manhattan still empty, no lines for coffee, a few tourists wearing backpacks, and I thought I might be the luckiest. The shadows and the sun and the loneliness and the independence, and I might still be the luckiest, I forgot.

I followed the sun down the curved streets. The curviest streets in Manhattan? Through the park and found a bench in the sun. Beginnings and endings, I come here. A ritual now, the only ritual maybe, but almost two years old and very much mine. Lady Liberty, standing strong, always, with open arms. One year ago, I thought it was a beginning. But it turned into an ending, then looped itself into a middle. This year it is an ending, although I couldn’t tell you which one. I don’t pretend to know much of anything these days. I feel lighter this way, without the weight of the answers.

Pink shoulders pulled me out of the sun, and I meandered towards the subway. With a sharp right into the National Museum of the American Indian. Research, I thought. Instead, it was a deep reminder of the Saturdays I spent in the NMAI in DC from open to close. The hours I spent undoing the 9-5 and remembering how to breathe, how to live.

"It’s funny how life circles," I texted.

"Always does," came the instant reply.

Not research, I reminded myself. Deadlines, funding, summer job, I reminded myself. Finally got back on the subway. Walked the blocks to the library in the shadows of scaffolding. When I finally arrived, the security guard reminded me. The library is closed on summer Sundays. I forgot.

I remember now. All summer, I’ll be out in the sunlight. Beginning or endings or middles, I’ll be out in the sunlight.

Coffee brings warmth and comfort to my life. Part ritual, part relationship, part hope, having a cup in my hand feels as natural as holding a pencil. It stirs up memories and gratitude inside me.

—Nicole Johnson 

(Source: delta-breezes, via myownmelt)

americasgreatoutdoors:

Sunsets don’t get much better than this one over Grand Teton National Park. Photo: Robert McKinney (www.sharetheexperience.org)

Wanderlusting…

americasgreatoutdoors:

Sunsets don’t get much better than this one over Grand Teton National Park.

Photo: Robert McKinney (www.sharetheexperience.org)

Wanderlusting…

NIGHTNIGHT by DEDDY