So it’s selfie time.
My brothers and I were trying to remember all the things New York City police officers have called us over the years: Yo, Buster, Bud, George, Freak Flag, Butthead, Meathead – that was my brother Kevin, “Hey Meathead!” This reminds me of a story. My brother Tommy once jumped over the balcony in a bar in New York and landed on a table. The idiot who was sitting at the table had said to a girl “Hopefully you and I…” and my brother Tommy jumps over and lands on his table and says, “Never f**ing begin a sentence with an adverb!” which sent us into hysterics.
-Why do you love telling stories?
Stories are food. Stories are everything. Stories are prayer. Stories are holy. Without substantive stories, people will sell you lies. Religions are stories, politics are stories, nations are stories, towns are stories, families are stories. That’s why Alzheimer’s is so cruel, because it sucks out all your stories. If you don’t have real stories, whether they’re silly or funny or brave or stories of unbelievable courage or defiant grace, then you’ll be sold nothing but murder and lies. So I’m a story catcher. That’s my job. And more and more as I get older, stories are where it’s at. Everything that we are is composed of stories.
Glen Orchy & Glen Etive (by Julian Calverley)
The earth laughs in flowers.
I love sitting in a train. Sure, you can listen to music everywhere but in a train … I don’t know. The way the nature passes and the thoughts begin to flow without even knowing it … it’s something really special. And I love the feeling. Sometimes I think there’s nothing better than sitting in a train and doing nothing but listen to some really good music that breaks your heart.
I have never related to any post more!!
do you remember the first time you were called annoying?
how your breath stopped short in your chest
the way the light drained from your eyes, though you knew your cheeks were ablaze
the way your throat tightened as you tried to form an argument that got lost on your tongue.
your eyes never left the floor that day.
you were 13.
you’re 20 now, and i still see the light fade from your eyes when you talk about your interests for “too long,”
apologies littering every other sentence,
words trailing off a cliff you haven’t jumped from in 7 years.
i could listen to you forever, though i know speaking for more than 3 uninterrupted minutes makes you anxious.
all i want you to know is that you deserve to be heard
for 3 minutes
for 10 minutes
for 2 hours
there will be people who cannot handle your grace, your beauty, your wisdom, your heart;
mostly because they can’t handle their own.
but you will never be
and have never been
Did she make your heart beat faster than I could?
Did she give you what you hoped for?
Still alive, who you love..
OH GOD YES
When I need to reach the word count.