Living Life in Golden Hues

A visual representation of my day thus far:

8 hours ago | 3 notes | Permalink
1 day ago | 3 notes | Permalink

In Defense of the Midwest:


1. Here the sky is as open as

the land is and

to the east you can see

a rainbow bridge the two, while

to the west

you can see the rainstorm that’s 

come through and kicked up all

the dust.

Against the setting sun those

patchy showers look like

brush stokes on the sky

2. Open plains don’t leave

hiding places, so 

when you’re

up against the night

standing tall and honest

realizing you might be shorter than the


The sun hits at an angle low

enough to crawl across

the land and make it warm and


welcoming the evening 

on the earth’s blushing cheek 

3. There’s a feeling at dusk

of just enough.

When the sun is still sliding

past the horizon and the

crescent moon has slipped

just enough out of its pocket to 

peak at the gods intertwined with the

sky, a shy blue banner unfolds

from the dusty blushing sky

that’s cradling the sun -

and I walk across the Mississippi 

on a bridge lit up by little gulps of

pink and yellow sunset, preserved

in the white glass bulbs that line 

the Washington Avenue bridge, 

knowing that the day is done. 

The sky is blue enough,

the sun is warm enough, 

the river is fast enough, 

the moon is there enough, 

and through the day I have 

done enough. 

At dusk, we have done


4. If you look down 

at us on any quiet

night, you’ll see that

the land is as freckled

as the sky

with beacons to guide

our friends 


1 day ago | 2 notes | Permalink





            I carry around a lot of books and a lot of rage and both of those give me bad posture. I lug around one textbook after another, each one more incomprehensible than the last, both in terms of content and in choice of cover art. The other day I stood naked in front of my mirror – well, the mirror of the Quincy Hall first floor handicapped bathroom, but don’t tell anyone – and noticed there were bright brown bruises around and behind my knees. My messenger bag, made bulky and pointy by a bulk of pointless schoolwork, has been thwacking my thighs to a pulp. And ok, maybe it’s unfair to call the pursuit of knowledge pointless – but as I hustle through public high school hallways and Cambridge crosswalks, wincing every step of the way, it’s hard not to feel like I’m hurrying nowhere. Which isn’t me dismissing the value of a good education or scoffing at the American dream of a house or a spouse or a job. It’s just that I’m an English major, and I’ll be lucky to get one out of three.


            Back to the textbook thing. Back in high school – back when I thought my college experience would involve spending a summer in England, sweet-talking my way into an internship at the BBC, and then sweet-talking my way into the pants of some Westminster ginger named, quite possibly, Peter – all the way back then, I had a lot of hope. But also, as mentioned, a lot of anger. I’ve heard that a cynic is just a frustrated idealist, which seems like an awfully nice way of putting it, because in high school ‘cynic’ was a word boys with bad haircuts called themselves during overly long political discussions on Facebook. Anyway, you could generously call high-school-me a frustrated idealist with extra frustrated, or you could just cut to the chase and call me a virgin. And as scary and non-PC and Game-of-Thronesy as this is going to sound, there are few things that can make you hate a guy like not being able to have sex with him. Surrounded by handsome heterosexuals who voted for Bachmann and – and this next part is important – who walked very slowly in the hallway during passing period, I tended to divide my school days into three main class-time pastimes: doodling, drooling on my desk, or desperately hoping for a zombie apocalypse so I could dispense merciless retribution upon everyone I had ever not liked or, more importantly, everyone I had ever really, really liked.

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Driving across the Midwest is not ideal, but it’s a lot better with this cutie on my lap

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Hey there, brother bear(s)

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This little boy is officially one year old! Happy birthday baby Ben!

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