!
Empty threats
Empty hearts
Empty nets
False starts
Empty hands
Empty eyes
Empty man
What’s mine?
We also have no sales tax!
Maybe in select parts of BillyBurg, but that’s such a tiny part of Brooklyn! And even then it’s so very different. You can’t really afford to be ambiguously employed when your rent is so damn high. And I think New Yorkers in general are 1000x more ambitious than Portlanders. Also, Brooklyn is part of a real city. With diversity. And a subway system. And cool music, and an active nightlife, and fashion, and people from all over the world with billions of different lifestyles. Young people wander to Portland to retire; young people rush to New York to fulfill their dreams.
I’m currently seeing someone who lives in Greenpoint and as we were saying goodbye on Sunday he said “See? Isn’t Brooklyn nice?” to which I replied “It’s not horrible.” (I’m a native Manhattanite which means that a) I am biased by default standards of turf pride and b) I have basically never actually hung out in Bklyn before.) He responded with “Don’t worry, you’re going to end up living here someday. Just you wait and see.” So I feel like an omen has been cast upon me now. Though I guess I can see it…it’s a good place to transition from the four years of Portland life that have made me a tad too soft for the hustle and bustle of the city.
I’m vaguely proud of your response.
Why would one want to live in Portland and Brooklyn simultaneously?
a) VEGANS
b) ETSY SHOPS
c) BEARDED MEN WITH PRETENTIOUS MUSIC TASTE
d) COFFEE
e) ALL OF THE A(-flippin’-)BOVE
She wants to understand you fundamentally. Give her all your details. She can organize them. She’ll tell you who you are. She’ll tell you when you went astray and how she can fix you. Dispositionally, Situationally, it’s all the same to her. You’re you. Each attribute alone in perfection, and together in factory-like synergy. You move her, along your assembly line, this process, that control; you’ll meet the production quotas every shift. Checks and balances of you, and she’ll comply. Go back to the fundamentals. She doesn’t want to commit careless errors, but all signs point to you. Her schemas prime themselves just for this moment. Perking, peaking, up and up. “Places everyone!” They love to see you. Your information will never overload them. You’re predisposed to her, she can see. She’ll dispose of what’s left afterwards.
!
He wants to understand you fundamentally. Give him all your details. He can organize them. He’ll tell you who you are. He’ll tell you when you went astray and how he can fix you. Dispositionally, Situationally, it’s all the same to him. You’re you. Each attribute alone in perfection, and together in factory-like synergy. You move him, along your assembly line, this process, that control; you’ll meet the production quotas every shift. Checks and balances of you, and he’ll comply. Go back to the fundamentals. He doesn’t want to commit careless errors, but all signs point to you. Her schemas prime themselves just for this moment. Perking, peaking, up and up. “Places everyone!” They love to see you. Your information will never overload them. You’re predisposed to him, he can see. He’ll dispose of what’s left afterwards.
When you make something no one hates, no one loves it.
Tibor Kalman quoted by Fredrik Öst & Magnus Berg of SNASK speaking at CreativeMornings/Stockholm. (*watch the talk)
The swing of the pendulum, grasping equal and opposite forces. Go big!
Kiss
for brevity——-to comfort
for bravery——-to coax
for body————to create
for every————to confuse
for every————to confound
for every————-to conquer
for heavy————-to clear
for heady————-to cancel
for homey————to cover
for actuality———-to confer
for apology————to cloak
for apathy————-to callous
for victory————-to chase
for vanity——————to crave
for variety————to congratulate
for every—————-to catch
for every—————-to carry
for each——————to check
for savory——————to cast
for spunky——————-to cheer
for sanity———————to chance
There’s one
Hands lifted towards ceiling tiles. Hands cramming paper into shredding machines. Hands caressing other hands. Hands gravitating to any warmth, give me, please, oh I would like that, oooh yeah that’s nice, oh, hello. Hands supporting fingers. Fingers grasping around cups and bartops, the backs of chairs and the rims of dress shirts. Hands signaling the start of you, the end of me, the start of an us, bold signals. Hands brightly. Hands known as well as anything, I know you this way. Hands tearing at peppered envelopes, corner to corner, knife-slit perfection. Hands gripping papers to actualize content. Hands wrapped in ice in the meat section. Hands spilling my workload into a new lap. Hands soaking in lotion, let’s not talk about work. Handy men in the yard and hands baking bready things. Hands blistering from running pressures, stroke after stroke after stroke. Hands shaking and clasping and patting—Nice to meet you too! Hands floating outward, dipping in waves, splashing tidal waves, splaying wide, they’re dolphins. Hands frayed at the fingernails and eaten by worry, fringed in bones, hair beginnings, wrinkled folds and woven skin, pinkly hued nail sheets on beds, whitish pillows on the floor. Hands petting at seat cushions coyly. Hands saying please. Hands dripping through sandy piles, cups that believe in freewill. Hands stroking on facewash after an accidental pimple, they take the blame graciously. Hands combing cornrow seed lines grooves into the hair he has left. Hands breaking trust, strikingly quick. Hands promoting creativity. Hands stained with words. Hands measuring the stallion’s strides towards the finish line, link after link, emptying the space between him and the competition, bridling doubts of freedom’s role in life, and stomping out fear. Hands propped up by friends at the elbows, pressed into the Lord’s hands, and they never let go. Handsome men with waltzing hands, here and here, and they’ll stay there for now. Hand me my scalpel, and let’s begin. Hands handling the tough issues, convivial gestures and love touches. “We’ll get through this” hands shout. Hands surrendering all to the hands that made all hands. Hands whispering peach emotions. Handprints and pawprints side by side, screaming I love you. Hands drawing ideas without verbs. Hands snaking around arms: I’m still here.
