goodlooksamerica
prose, poetry, photography
4 a.m. - 
The eyelids start to droop downwards, the fatigue of 10+ hours staring into a blue screen, the swirling depressing thoughts that come only after midnight - wandering the airport waiting for my flight. Reminds me of something along the lines of Lost in Translation and Up in the Air, both of which are great movies. A lot of baggage that I’ve been thinking about lately and I don’t even remember carrying them.

4 a.m. - 

The eyelids start to droop downwards, the fatigue of 10+ hours staring into a blue screen, the swirling depressing thoughts that come only after midnight - wandering the airport waiting for my flight. Reminds me of something along the lines of Lost in Translation and Up in the Air, both of which are great movies. A lot of baggage that I’ve been thinking about lately and I don’t even remember carrying them.

ride

Bullet train
You pass through Mother’s
sweet heart,
climbing her mountainous 
chest, twirling
circling up the tip
of her nipple.

You pass through hollow
tunnels blind
but follow her and there’s light.

She knows how to shake
You up,
your stomach dipping and
churning from the way she
leads you through her -
she holds your hand
guiding you around the foot hills
up the leg of ascents
and into the hot spring
tucked away in a small
evergreen forest.

You sink into her
drink her in
riding her. 

newyorker:

On the newly redesigned newyorker.com, our entire archive—dating back to 2007—will be available, for free, through the fall. Take a look. We hope you enjoy it.
Read more about the changes, in a note from our editors: http://nyr.kr/1rDjmZ0
Illustration by Barry Blitt.

newyorker:

On the newly redesigned newyorker.com, our entire archive—dating back to 2007—will be available, for free, through the fall. Take a look. We hope you enjoy it.

Read more about the changes, in a note from our editors: http://nyr.kr/1rDjmZ0

Illustration by Barry Blitt.

on trials and tribulations

It’s okay to feel such a wave rising above you, ready to come crashing down because that is what youth is for - to feel the lashing whip of a heavy tide, to feel the burning of the lungs on the brink of drowning, to feel the sea salt rub against your eyes like sandpaper. This is what youth is; a testament to how many experiences you can garner while one’s vitality is unlimited. Happiness does not last for eternity, on the contrary it comes and goes in moments interrupted by extensive periods of struggle, the latter of which we always remember more clearly. Happiness and struggle are two symbiotic entities, like yin and yang, both relying on the other in order to exist. Without one, the other is miserable. So let the waves come, let the sea rise, and let the oceans flood past your gates because this is what it means to be young - afraid but courageous, tired but driven. 

It’s okay to feel such a way as long as you continue to move, each stroke following another.

Day 3 - Boys on Fire

A close friend of mine and I thought it would be a good idea to light up a few old shirts on a summer’s night and take a few pictures - turned out to be a great idea. Fire is a beautiful thing. The way it flares and splashes like fireworks, or the way it streams through the dark like a comet. It moves freely on its own, only existing for a moment’s stare. 

Day 2 -
There’s three stray dogs that live around here and by the looks of it one of them seems to the baby of the two. They’re quite adorable dogs since they’re friendly and playful. All you have to do to get them to show up is to let out a long loud whistle and soon they’ll scrambling towards you wherever they are, their dark pink tongues panting with their tails wagging in delight. Maybe dogs aren’t so bad after all. 

Day 2 -

There’s three stray dogs that live around here and by the looks of it one of them seems to the baby of the two. They’re quite adorable dogs since they’re friendly and playful. All you have to do to get them to show up is to let out a long loud whistle and soon they’ll scrambling towards you wherever they are, their dark pink tongues panting with their tails wagging in delight. Maybe dogs aren’t so bad after all. 

to the far east

china, hong kong, taiwan, maybe some europe for the next 2-3 weeks. I’ll keep the blog updated with pics! 

housingworksbookstore:

In this episode of On Stage at Housing Works Bookstore Cafe, Allen Crawford and Rainbow Rowell are together in the same place. Yeah. I know. I’m excited too. Hear Allen explain how he recreated Whitman’s “Song of Myself” through illustration, and listen to Rainbow (my horrible Parisian wifi connection won’t let me tag her! ugh) talk about how johndarnielle's music influenced her writing Eleanor & Park, then read a selection from the novel. If you’re not already, you can subscribe on Soundcloud or iTunes, and make sure to check back for a new episode in two weeks! Enjoy!

northbrooklyncycles:

Nice #Raleigh #nbkc #nbkcyckles

northbrooklyncycles:

Nice #Raleigh #nbkc #nbkcyckles

Paperback Mail

I think I’m going to return your book. But of course, I’ll coward out and throw the aged paperback with the raggedy cover into your mailbox, the metal cover flap slamming down as I sprint off down the street hoping you don’t notice. But of course, I want you to notice. I want to return the dear book you gave me because it means much to you - why else would you have kept it for so long? But when you come out in your oversized white tee hiding your denim shorts and open the mailbox to find what has always been yours inside you’ll grimace.

You’ll stare at the aged cover and the oriental dragons printed on the front and wonder how this dear book of yours escaped your sight. Then in the middle of your thought you’ll see me, the outline of my body, my face, my handwritten words. You’ll most probably frown at this point mostly because I managed to slip through your conscious without having you wanting to. It’ll annoy you for a second but you go on to collect the rest of the mail inside the mailbox. You’ll walk inside, up your wooden stairs, down the narrow hallway and into your room where you slip the aged but your dear book into the visible gap in your book shelf. You turn away and continue to sort the whites and color laundry for wash. At once, you were reminded of me in the present, and forever I’ll be placed on the shelf stored in the past.

I think I’m not going to return your book.