22 January 2017

herman melville wrote this in a letter to nathaniel hawthorne:

The calm, the coolness, the silent grass-growing mood in which a man ought always to compose,—that, I fear, can seldom be mine. Dollars damn me; and the malicious Devil is forever grinning in upon me, holding the door ajar. My dear Sir, a presentiment is on me,—I shall at last be worn out and perish, like an old nutmeg-grater, grated to pieces by the constant attrition of the wood, that is, the nutmeg. What I feel most moved to write, that is banned,—it will not pay. Yet, altogether, write the other way I cannot. So the product is a final hash, and all my books are botches. I’m rather sore, perhaps, in this letter, but see my hand!—four blisters on this palm, made by hoes and hammers within the last few days. It is a rainy morning; so I am indoors, and all work suspended. I feel cheerfully disposed, and therefore I write a little bluely. Would the Gin were here! If ever, my dear Hawthorne, in the eternal times that are to come, you and I shall sit down in Paradise, in some little shady corner by ourselves; and if we shall by any means be able to smuggle a basket of champagne there (I won’t believe in a Temperance Heaven), and if we shall then cross our celestial legs in the celestial grass that is forever tropical, and strike our glasses and our heads together, till both musically ring in concert,—then, O my dear fellow-mortal, how shall we pleasantly discourse of all the things manifold which now so distress us,—when all the earth shall be but a reminiscence, yea, its final dissolution an antiquity. Then shall songs be composed as when wars are over; humorous, comic songs,—”Oh, when I lived in that queer little hole called the world,” or, “Oh, when I toiled and sweated below,” or, “Oh, when I knocked and was knocked in the fight”—yes, let us look forward to such things. Let us swear that, though now we sweat, yet it is because of the dry heat which is indispensable to the nourishment of the vine which is to bear the grapes that are to give us the champagne hereafter.

“that queer little hole called the world”


my hero

20 January 2017


20 January 2017

serious question: is there like a french word or something for not wanting to be alive but also not exactly wanting to be dead

18 January 2017

everyone in portland is a quote unquote photographer and it’s driving me insane

15 January 2017

one year ago to the day i was getting drunk on a four-pack of tecate tallboys in my grandmother’s bathtub

yeah baby

15 January 2017

I won’t name who said this because I don’t want to embarrass her, but my friend said this to me: “I just don’t really look forward to the rest of my life”

. . . and I thought: heck yeah dude, me neither. And I also got envious and tried to figure out why I had somehow never come up with such a succinct way of putting it (lol)