You’ll always fail sometimes when you begin.

And I know you wanna get out of here.

i know you think this town is the problem but maybe it’s not, maybe it’s you
i know you think there are walls around you, but did you ever look
it’s so easy to blame other people, it’s so easy to hate where you’re from
but the truth is we’re the product of nothing
just a collection of the things that we’ve done

what if the songs you say define you were just the ones that you heard first?
what if your first love could be your last love if you hadn’t used it as a way to rehearse?
it’s so easy to think of an ending, it’s so easy to start all over again
but the truth is you have to stick with it;
you’ll always fail sometimes when you begin.

– summer camp

Good enough

October was … anticlimactic. A bit of a failure. Rain, rain and more rain, accompanied by a gale that tore the leaves from the trees in record time, long before I had the time, inclination and opportunity to go gaze at them. The shops, usually packed to the rafters with skulls and pumpkins, stood bereft of halloweeny crap. Everyone anticipated a very flat all hallow’s eve, and they were not wrong: a total of zero children knocked on my door in search of treats, and they were right. Risk getting a virus for a cheap chocolate? It doesn’t seem like a good exchange.

I ate all the sweets I bought just in case, watched some horror movies, listened to my (ever wonderful) halloween playlist, didn’t carve a jack o’lantern, barely decorated the house and went to bed on a sugar high, low spirits mood.

The good news is we are alive and well. And that’s good enough.

What the living do.

“Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there. And the Drano won’t work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up waiting for the plumber I still haven’t called. This is the everyday we spoke of.

It’s winter again: the sky’s a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through the open living-room windows because the heat’s on too high in here and I can’t turn it off. For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking, I’ve been thinking: This is what the living do.

And yesterday, hurrying along those wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve, I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.

Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.
What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss–we want more and more and then more of it.

But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass, say, the window of the corner video store, and I’m gripped by a cherishing so deep for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I’m speechless:

I am living. I remember you.”

– Marie Howe

A room without a view.

Você sabe por que tantas casas na Inglaterra têm janelas fechadas com tijolos como essa da foto acima (e abaixo)? Elas foram todas fechadas na mesma época e não, não houve nenhum “surto de privacidade” assolando o Reino; isso aconteceu logo depois da implantação da “window tax”, um imposto sobre o número de janelas. Não havia ainda imposto sobre renda (considerada uma informação confidencial), mas quanto maior a casa mais janelas ela teria, então era óbvio que os moradores deviam ser abastados – taca imposto neles! Foi quando muitas famílias decidiram se livrar de “janelas supérfluas”, especialmente as laterais e aquelas cuja vista não era assim tão deslumbrante.

Depois que saímos do parque em Richmond fomos tomar um sorvete e fazer fotos, mas quando chegamos ao green já estava escurecendo. Compramos tortinhas no Maids of Honour café e dirigimos de volta para casa, admirando pelo caminho as cenas finais dessa estação que começa a dizer adeus.