Collecting bottles, tossing leftovers, taking out the garbage
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Pornography is a dirty book. If you like a dirty book, it’s fine, nothing wrong with it.
If I were to join in communion with you, to commune with you, to communicate with you, I would do so over a cup of raspberry leaf-mint tea and a piece of Celebration Carob Cake (so called because it was the first cake I baked after the birth of my last child).
Couldn’t find anything else. The following being typed on a Scott Towel. You know — The one that’s twenty percent heavier? What the hell is her name anyway?
We asked Richard Williams, THE SUN’s poetry editor, to assess the literary magazines published in and near Chapel Hill.
When I have a problem, I sometimes have difficulty owning up to it. It’s much easier to say, “He’s screwed up to get in my way like that,” or “How can they treat me that way?” And this only intensifies my problem.
Our bodies communicate vast amounts of information to our conscious and unconscious minds, and to other people. We cannot hide our feelings, at least not from every part of ourselves.
For years, I spent an hour every morning with The New York Times. It wasn’t that different from repeating a mantra or concentrating on the breath. Stories, like thoughts, would come and go; in time, it dawned on me that “objectivity” was pure myth, since no two people, journalists included, see the same event in the same way.
I stopped working as soon as I was out of a place to live. To work hard all day hauling lumber and driving nails and take my rest on some itchy living room couch was too much.
Jealous of the female art of creation, man conjured up the art of the mummified reflection, and so was born the Work of Art: a solid hunk of inanimate matter scratched and battered into a shape codifying his unique understandings.
Language, more than anything else, separates man from other animals. It plays a dominant role in shaping our conceptions about the world. Language is a means of transmitting and storing information, generally with words or other symbols.
First he insults me, tells me I’m not a human being. Well, I tell him — this frog, this polka-dotted frog — that I just can’t control myself in the face of spaghetti.