Someone spoke to me last night, told me the truth. Just a few words, but I recognized it. I knew I should make myself get up, write it down, but it was late, and I was exhausted from working all day in the garden, moving rocks. Now, I remember only the flavor — not like food, sweet or sharp. More like a fine powder, like dust. And I wasn’t elated or frightened, but simply rapt, aware. That’s how it is sometimes — God comes to your window, all bright light and black wings, and you’re just too tired to open it.

archived on 2009-04-28 08:00:32

I think my freckle is on the gay hand

exhibit two: kimchi jjigae that my wife told me to post on kitchencels

ok I think y’all are ready to see transgender Frankenstein’s monster I did for class

Saturdayyyyyy

Mia Novakova, Porch Collapse

what the fuck are my mutuals doing

Buttercream Joy Sullivan

In Lifton, in Devon, England.