Advice? I don’t have advice. Stop aspiring and start writing. If you’re writing, you’re a writer. Write like you’re a goddamn death row inmate and the governor is out of the country and there’s no chance for a pardon. Write like you’re clinging to the edge of a cliff, white knuckles, on your last breath, and you’ve got just one last thing to say, like you’re a bird flying over us and you can see everything, and please, for God’s sake, tell us something that will save us from ourselves. Take a deep breath and tell us your deepest, darkest secret, so we can wipe our brow and know that we’re not alone. Write like you have a message from the king. Or don’t. Who knows, maybe you’re one of the lucky ones who doesn’t have to.
My mouth is a fire escape. The words coming out don’t care that they are naked. There is something burning in there.
Long Now, right now. #longnowfoundation #theinterval (at The Interval)
“Once you learn to discern the voice of Mother Culture humming in the background, telling her story over and over again to the people of your culture, you’ll never stop being conscious of it. Wherever you go for the rest of your life, you’ll be tempted to say to the people around you, “how can you listen to this stuff and not recognize it for what it is?”
― Daniel Quinn, Ishmael
Chillin’ and working next to the truly epic #aeroponic urban garden by #FutureGrowing at #ORD. Ate a salad of this stuff at Wolfgang Puck afterward. Also, bees live on the roof. #latergram #madeofwin (at Chicago O’Hare Airport)