New Age Amazon

a girl who does stuff

  • 19th April
    2013
  • 19
  • 5th April
    2013
  • 05
  • 2nd April
    2013
  • 02

They say “If you are going through Hell, keep going.”

I think that’s incredibly unhelpful.  Who knows how far Hell goes on?  How much further are you going to have to trek through the muck and the stench before you even get close to out of Hell?  And really, where are you headed when you get out?  Will leaving Hell just lead you back to a 9 to 5 desk job which you remind yourself, constantly, to endure because that’s just how it works? Is it really worth it at that point?  Hell is Hell, but at least the scenery changes.

 

Or are you bound for Heaven?  Isn’t Heaven perfect?  Can perfection ever change?  What if Heaven isn’t all it’s cracked up to be?

 

If you are going through Hell, stop and take in the sights.  Imagine the best place for your summer home, a Starbucks, a vintage clothing store.  If you did a little landscaping it might be half-liveable, and sometimes that’s more than you can say for your non-Hell lifestyle.  It’ll never be a white picket fence perfectly tended yard two point five kids and a dog sort of place, but that’s really for the best, isn’t it?


If you’re going through Hell, step off the beaten path.  Your Virgil may protest, but do you really just wanna see what they put out for the tourists?  If you really wanna get to know a place, you have to ask the locals.

 

If you’re going through Hell, raise some. It can’t get any worse, you’re already in Hell, what do you have to be afraid of?  Stoic suffering isn’t noble, it isn’t commendable, it is self-serving.  It is for your martyrdom and ego.  Hell doesn’t need another martyr and your ego doesn’t mean much there.  

 

If you’re going through Hell, pick up a souvenir.  And grab some for your friends while you’re at it.

  • 30th March
    2013
  • 30
  • 21st February
    2013
  • 21

Excerpt From the Current Project

When I was 15 I believed, in a very naive teenage way, that the most romantic thing a person could ever do was request and dedicate a song to you on the radio.  Not just any song.  One particular song that they knew was just right, not because they’d asked you, not because you’d told them, but because they were on that same wavelength with you and understood how you felt about music.

I’ve never had a song dedicated to me on the radio.  Or at a school dance.  Or anywhere for that matter.  Nobody ever seemed to realize, or care, how much something like that would mean to me.  Nobody ever had a song for me.  

Or at least, nobody ever had a song for me that they would let me hear.

This is a work of nonfiction and I have no idea where it is going, but I swear it will not name names.

  • 19th February
    2013
  • 19
I was trying to find resources to send to my mother who doesn’t understand that not everything I do artistically has some monetary or career-focused goal, and that sometimes I need to write just to write without plans to sell it or even knowing what the hell it is.
This was Google’s first suggestion.
Google.  You are not helping.

I was trying to find resources to send to my mother who doesn’t understand that not everything I do artistically has some monetary or career-focused goal, and that sometimes I need to write just to write without plans to sell it or even knowing what the hell it is.


This was Google’s first suggestion.

Google.  You are not helping.

  • 11th February
    2013
  • 11

godofgallifrey:

danglingthpider:

alldolleddown:

iamsofreakingfetch:

And it’s always the same 2 blue eyes comparisons. The ocean or the sky. Like come on at least be creative.

His eyes were as blue as the blue liquid used in commercials for Always Pads.

His eyes were as blue as the lips on a corpse in the morgue

As he was dying, he looked at me, and I stared back into those eyes. those eyes that were as blue as the anti-freeze i’d laced his whiskey with.

And in that moment, as I pushed past him on my way to the door of the hotel room, I swear his eyes were as blue as his balls.

(via )

  • 12th January
    2013
  • 12
My third hand’s in your kitchen
re-arranging the spice cabinet
it cannot do the dishes right
it doesn’t get them clean enough.
My third hand stays out of your bedroom
it’s not that inconsiderate
it hovers in the hallway
it wouldn’t enter if you invited it.
My third hand passes the collection plate
without adding any offerings.
I’ve only beads and trinkets
and your God has no use for them.
My third hand is awkward on the sidewalk
and even worse when we get intimate.
It is always grabbing for some small mercy
holding on, desperate to stay relevant.
My third hand is just a phantom limb
that you seem to feel, but then forget about.
In a world that lives to pair things off
it is an unwelcome anomaly.
What does it connect to?
And how does it continue?
It’s just making you uncomfortable.
So you cut if off,
for you it’s painless.
  • 5th January
    2013
  • 05
Submissions Needed for Interfictions Debut Issue!

The Interstitial Arts Foundation (IAF) is going online with their Interfictions series, and will open up for submissions starting February 1st!  We’re looking for all KINDS of stuff that blurs the lines drawn in literary circles and challenges and changes the perception of what is possible in writing.

So, if you have something, please consider submitting it!  And if nothing else, PLEASE pass this link along to your other writer-ly type friends.  This is only the first issue, there’s plans for the future, and we need your help!

  • 2nd January
    2013
  • 02

For 2013

Don’t make any big promises to yourself.  Make little promises that will maybe add up to something big.

Promise yourself that every day you’ll take five minutes to tell yourself that it is going to be all right.  That doesn’t mean it will all be good or it will be perfect, but that it will be ALL RIGHT.

Promise yourself that you’ll try something new.  You don’t have to know what right now.

Promise yourself you’ll take a risk and feel the rush.

Promise yourself you’re doing away with the phrase “guilty pleasure.”  Like what you like and refuse to apologize for it.

Promise to be brutally honest.

Promise to tell a lie.  A big one.

Promise that over the course of the year, you will construct at least one to three mix CD’s or playlists for various moods/events/reasons/days of the week.  Aim for more than that, though.

Promise to own one item of clothing, pair of shoes or accessory that makes you feel beautiful, one that makes you feel like a badass and one that makes you feel safe and warm.

Promise yourself that at some point it will hurt, but that the pain will eventually go away.

Promise yourself a regret to take into 2014 with you.

Promise you will treat every party like the after party.