This is That Fresh Feeling

This. This right here. Just this.

Broken Windshield Story

It was thick. But it was the charming version of the accent instead of the twangy one. Friday afternoon, I was delighted.

"Ma’am. Do you have a place to park the car in case it’s rainin’ at the time of repair?"

"Err. Uh. Ye. I think I…It’s Southern California. It won’t rain."

* * * 

I’m a light sleeper. And, even before the first sliver of sunlight would have made it over the hills, I was awake.

For the weeks leading up to this particular Monday, I had slept even lighter…A phone’s buzz, a bark, wind battering a window, the sound of footsteps shuffling away were too much. But this day, all that wouldn’t have mattered; it was coming down hard. A minute passes before my brain speeds up enough to acknowledge the odds. 

At lunch, I was eating my words. The Accent was on the phone again, “We can’t fix your windsheild if it’s already wet, Ma’am.” 

"Indeed," I think first, then "unlikely."

* * * 

Pathetic fallacy is such a motherfucker but rain has a way of washing things away. Tuesday, in the precious early hours, it felt like spring. And I was up in a mountain staring the 20-odd miles down to the ocean through the temporarily crisp December air. 

I get a call. It’s the Accent. Someone was on their way to me. Could I be home in 20? I think about the the tiny stellate scissure in my windsheild. Sure. 20. No problem. On the way down the mountain, I see the spindley legs of the crack making their way across the windsheild. I wonder if a little resin will be enough to keep it from zig-zagging its way across the glass, fracturing the whole thing one day. Seems like magic. Or maybe just bullshit. 

* * * 

At 5:56 am, blue light creeps in and I’m awake for it. The right side of the country has forgotten, again, and the little bell dings. “Assholes,” I think. But I’m already up, digging through crumpled sweaters and jeans.

And, they know it.

A few minutes later, even this early, the 10 is a parking lot. Traffic creeps to the west, a groaning catapillar of red lights moving through the smoggy half-light. If I could just get to the 405.

* * *

Less than a half-mile away, crossing Valley, you can’t see the water yet. The land by the ocean undulates. But, I have enough sun light now and enough time to notice the tiny streak still cutting through the windshield. While I roll down the final hill towards Ocean Drive, I look back in my rearview and see the white stucco front of a tiny, corner restaurant. I have to smile despite myself. At least I’m home again. 

I sleep fantastically. I have this dream everyone is made-up.

I sleep fantastically. I have this dream everyone is made-up.

(via z-shiva)

trainbust:

minusmanhattan:

Looking into the Past by Jason Powell.

I want to re-reblog this image because everyone’s getting so up-in-arms (no pun intended) about 9/11 posts, both here and on facebook.
The commentary provided by this photograph is invaluable. The subject of the photograph within the piece is people watching and thinking, trying to process tragedy. Holding that image over the actual skyline represents our way of processing the tragedy, a constant imposition of the image over the actual skyline so that the past covers the space of what now exists.
We could argue that this type of processing isn’t processing at all. We can’t rebuild because there is something about the tragedy still scarring our sight. We still can’t see what’s there because of what happened.
We’ve defined the tragedy through this kind of intellectual play. ‘A scar on the American psyche,’ you might muse. ‘A simulacrum of tragedy.’ And, really, can you think of the tragedy without remembering the footage? How much of what you experienced came to you from TV (the footage), a newspaper (the image), and radio (the words)? How quickly did the tragedy transform into an “attack on our freedom”?
I fear those moments removed the tragedy from the tragedy. 9/11 spawned so much grief and insecurity that we never even got the chance to talk about. Discussing the tragedy separated us from the bare bones problems of soldiers sent to war and our people trapped and choking on smoke.  9/11 taught us new fears.
I was so confused, and it made me so afraid. If we were the biggest the best the most beautiful, then what was happening? Why? Because they hate our freedom, said the TV. It told me not to worry, that we were still the biggest the best the most beautiful. People cried all over the world, playing solemn anthems of regret. Because we’re the biggest the best the most beautiful, said the politicians. The tragedy happened because we shone so bright.

trainbust:

minusmanhattan:

Looking into the Past by Jason Powell.

I want to re-reblog this image because everyone’s getting so up-in-arms (no pun intended) about 9/11 posts, both here and on facebook.

The commentary provided by this photograph is invaluable. The subject of the photograph within the piece is people watching and thinking, trying to process tragedy. Holding that image over the actual skyline represents our way of processing the tragedy, a constant imposition of the image over the actual skyline so that the past covers the space of what now exists.

We could argue that this type of processing isn’t processing at all. We can’t rebuild because there is something about the tragedy still scarring our sight. We still can’t see what’s there because of what happened.

We’ve defined the tragedy through this kind of intellectual play. ‘A scar on the American psyche,’ you might muse. ‘A simulacrum of tragedy.’ And, really, can you think of the tragedy without remembering the footage? How much of what you experienced came to you from TV (the footage), a newspaper (the image), and radio (the words)? How quickly did the tragedy transform into an “attack on our freedom”?

I fear those moments removed the tragedy from the tragedy. 9/11 spawned so much grief and insecurity that we never even got the chance to talk about. Discussing the tragedy separated us from the bare bones problems of soldiers sent to war and our people trapped and choking on smoke.  9/11 taught us new fears.

I was so confused, and it made me so afraid. If we were the biggest the best the most beautiful, then what was happening? Why? Because they hate our freedom, said the TV. It told me not to worry, that we were still the biggest the best the most beautiful. People cried all over the world, playing solemn anthems of regret. Because we’re the biggest the best the most beautiful, said the politicians. The tragedy happened because we shone so bright.

terrysdiary:

Dita Von Teese’s awesome Christian Louboutins #2

terrysdiary:

Dita Von Teese’s awesome Christian Louboutins #2

ianbrooks:

Cows Made From Recycled Car Parts by Miina Äkkijyrkkä

Having spent most of her life working with cows, Miina behan purchasing used cars from around Finland and turning the scraps into giant metal idols of her favorite bovine. Just give them the ability to walk, Miina, and we can march on the rebel base. You and me, let’s do this.

(via: colossal)

(via niccagesfilmography-deactivated)

I should have more to say, but, today, I just feel like sparkling.

I should have more to say, but, today, I just feel like sparkling.

It’s just like you told me it’d be. 

Wugazi/The Wire

Cold Cave- Confetti