alina pleskova

flotsam & jetsam, jolts, bric-a-brac, whatever catches--



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  1. July 23, 2014
    martin-cj:

Julian Talamantez Brolaski, ADVICE FOR LOVERS

"…love is like, love is like falconry"

    martin-cj:

    Julian Talamantez Brolaski, ADVICE FOR LOVERS

    "…love is like, love is like falconry"

    (via anneboyer)

  2. July 18, 2014

    The wall hanging I never noticed | Dorothea Lasky

    I never noticed before
    How the red flowers hang from the blue branches
    I never noticed before the light in this room
    I never noticed the way the air is cool again
    I never noticed anything but you
    But you but you
    So that I couldn’t sleep
    I never noticed what was anything but you
    Until I noticed you
    And could not help it
    Until I noticed you I could not help it
    Until you made the red flowers alive again
    Until the blue branches
    The lemons you loved, but also the way you loved me, too
    Until all of this I never noticed you
    But once I did
    I never minded noticing
    I never stopped noticing
    Until I noticed you
    I never stopped noticing
    Until you, I never stopped

  3. July 17, 2014

    "Heterosexuality continues to this day to surprise me, the things men present to you as normal." - Dodie Bellamy | Pink Steam (via elanormcinerney)

  4. July 17, 2014

    Vanessa Veselka on the Lack of Female Road Narratives

    clockshopla:

    But there is no female counterpart in our culture to Ishmael or Huck Finn. There is no Dean Moriarty, Sal, or even a Fuckhead. As a fifteen-year-old hitchhiker, my survival depended upon other people’s ability to envision a possible future for me. Without a Melvillean or Kerouacian framework, or at least some kind of narrative to spell out a potential beyond death, none of my resourcefulness or curiosity was recognizable, and therefore I was unrecognizable.

    True quest is about agency, and the capacity to be driven past one’s limits in pursuit of something greater. It’s about desire that extends beyond what we may know about who we are. It’s a test of mettle, a destiny.

    image

    Ooh, I forgot about this. Still apropos.

    (via petitchou)

  5. July 14, 2014
    chelseahodson:

Inventory #560: And the Heart Says Whatever by Emily Gould
——-
REGARDING WIND
I try talking over the noise and it doesn’t work and I hold up my nails to better see the gold and I prefer to let other people make my decisions and if there is no voice I will say Hey and my heart may hear me and the gold under my nails looks like I’ve been digging and I keep the bones I find and this method is dependent on instinct and attention and the heart says What and I repeat myself. 

    chelseahodson:

    Inventory #560: And the Heart Says Whatever by Emily Gould

    ——-

    REGARDING WIND

    I try talking over the noise and it doesn’t work and I hold up my nails to better see the gold and I prefer to let other people make my decisions and if there is no voice I will say Hey and my heart may hear me and the gold under my nails looks like I’ve been digging and I keep the bones I find and this method is dependent on instinct and attention and the heart says What and I repeat myself. 

  6. July 11, 2014

    muscovite:

    I started journaling again, just to keep the lights on the writing sector of my brain. Follow along if you like.

    Once more for the morning crowd. xo

  7. July 10, 2014

    I started journaling again, just to keep the lights on the writing sector of my brain. Follow along if you like.

  8. July 8, 2014
    womanhouse:

from Lee Lozano: Notebooks 1967-1970

    womanhouse:

    from Lee Lozano: Notebooks 1967-1970

    (via karaj)

  9. July 7, 2014

    "I think when you are truly stuck, when you have stood still in the same spot for too long, you throw a grenade in exactly the spot you were standing in, and jump, and pray. It is the momentum of last resort." - From Speedboat, by Renata Adler. (via othersashas)

  10. July 7, 2014

    "My experience of narrative — particularly in New York City, where every approaching train cuts off every approaching thought, where the constant abrasion of the unknown with the insane desensitizes, so that I’m often left with white noise, and jagged notes from the digital world seep further into reality — is piecemeal. I had a friend who assured me that it was impossible to read certain books in the 21st-century city. Henry James, for instance. You need a quiet nook, she said. Otherwise, ‘before you’ve even finished one sentence’ — but she was cut off. I became fascinated with this idea of a patchwork approach. Certainly, it’s nothing new, but who did it well?" - In the Wake of Speedboat: On Renata Adler’s 1976 Novel by Eric Dean Wilson (via millionsmillions)

  11. July 5, 2014
    Sure is.

    Sure is.

  12. July 1, 2014

    "

    I’ve had this feeling before— of going out to get a poem, like hunting. The night that comes to mind is the night I wrote the earlier poem. I felt “…erotic, oddly / magnetic” like photographic paper. As I walked I was recording the details. I was the details, I was the poem.

    I am obsessed with culture. It’s my mental community, what configuration of art & art makers I belong with. Alone, I’m the culture of one. I’ve got my paintings, heroes, cult movies— any person who lives alone knows the situation of feeling like some kind of private museum. But, I also want to address my culture (some new, larger one out there which I suspect exists) which I begin by making work which violates the hermetic nature of my own museum— as a friendly gesture towards the people who might recognize me. I mean exhibitionistic work, really.

    " - Eileen Myles, from “How I Wrote Certain of My Poems”

  13. July 1, 2014

    "It was Cocteau who said: “Listen carefully to first criticisms made of your work. Note just what it is about your work that critics don’t like—then cultivate it. That’s the only part of your work that’s individual and worth keeping.” I think in Heroines, what I was really saying was that these great men, whose literature I also tremendously admire, at least Eliot and Flaubert, were allowed to channel hysteria in the works. That because these writers didn’t feel the threat of being labeled in such personal ways. They could distance their art from their lives, and then didn’t also, in that era, feel the very specific, punitive threat of being institutionalized. And something that I still think is very real in our culture is that many of the young women writers I teach and know, they’re very afraid of writing autobiographically or writing fiction that comes from a place of the self, that comes from some nonfiction impulse. I don’t think it’s about fiction or nonfiction. I think we’re afraid of being somehow wrong or unliterary or not serious or not transformative enough. Still illegitimate." - Kate Zambreno, here.

  14. June 27, 2014

    Turbulence | Alina Pleskova

    PHL to ORD: Two dozen peanuts, battered copy of Actual Air, and too-easy crossword from the seat pocket all prove unsuitable distractions. From lift to landing, I think of you. You on the bus, or walking with hands stuck in jacket pockets, or however you made it home last night after your gin-clouded voice asked what exactly I wanted from you, and I couldn’t answer. I said, instead, I’m more thin-skinned than you think. You kissed my cheek and I kept still, holding my breath until I heard a latch spring in the dark.

    ORD TO DAL: Wayward winds smack against the small plane during descent, sending the vessel careening like a rowboat set to capsize via rogue wave. Truthfully, it’s the calmest I’ve felt in weeks, surrendering to the rag doll jerk of turbulence. Some unseen force deciding where my body should go, for a change. I’ve spent years studying lust and its derivatives, and still the tenuous nature of intimacy hits me head-on just the same. Men as conduits, shake-ups, scenery. Illicit, they handle well. All else contentious, as if desire’s defined by its container.

    DAL TO ORD: Or maybe it’s just difficult to stay clear-headed at high altitudes, with pills and celestial sunlight thickly coating every attempt to make sense of things. I read your poems in succession, finally, and consider my faulty systems of assigning meaning: those potted orchids (having withstood winter) starting to wilt on the kitchen windowsill, how my tiniest tattoo (a pink heart hidden between right tit and ribs) is your favorite spot to kiss, the inscription in my copy of your book. You sat with it a while before you wrote, and I never asked what those few words meant (even when you pointed out the disappointed look I let slip), for fear of having noticed nothing.

    BOS TO PHL: Stave off sleep by paging through a pop psychology magazine. This bolded line from an article about hoarding catches my eye: Reclaiming my life meant divesting, but it was easier said than done. Days later, it ricochets back while my knees press against tile in a spacious, red-bulbed bathroom. I blink up at another him with big babydoll eyes and draft a list of those I’ll tell a different story later. The difficulty of divesting isn’t in the discarding; it’s in deciding what to keep.

  15. June 25, 2014

    indigenousdialogues:

    From the top: Berdie (1959), The End of All Existences (1957)
    Artist: Larry Rivers
    Author: Frank O’Hara
    Lithograph On White Wove Douglass Howell Handmade Paper
    Via Art Institute Chicago

    (via hour-glass-sanatorium)