http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yQcAbA9T_fo

whenifinallyfindthewords:

Lyrics: City by Lo Fi Fnk. Photography by me

EVERYBODY GETS A GAY HUSBAND!!!

(via ihopericksantorum)

preferablysomethingspecific asked: If you could give any one deceased person a chance to come back to life for one day, who would you choose and why? Would it be a person close to you who passed on recently, or a historical figure who might be able to offer a unique solution to current problems? Bonus: where would this person go on his/her day trip back to life?

OK I am finally finally FINALLY ready to answer this question.  I swear, it was about 60% serious consideration that lead to my slowness, but it doesn’t matter because I finally feel really, really good about the answer.  And it’s bending the rules a little because it’s 6 people, but I want to meet them all for the same reason.

So initially I thought of my grandparents, and how I never consciously met any of them and how lovely it would be to know the wonderful women who raised six children (both grandmas!), but somehow I felt like that wasn’t quite the right answer- I am happy to know my parents’ stories about my grandparents, and as much as I wish I had known their parents personally, I feel like this power could be used in more interesting ways.  My answer has a tiny back story though.

So in 1810 my great, great, great grandparents emigrated to the United States from Germany, and immediately succombed to cholera (apparently it was the hottest disease to “succomb to” at this time).  Which in theory should mean that I’m dead, right?  But NO!  They had six kids between the ages of 2 and 13 (lots of kids in a short time span is a hot thing in my family, to this day) and the kids were immediately quarantined in an empty shack in the town of Freeport, IL, where they lived.  The only reason they didn’t kick it as well is that some charitable townspeople slipped some food under the door to the children every day- and every last one of them survived!  One of the kids, John, then grew up to become a Brewer in Wisconsin, and for the next two generations brewing was the Gund family “thang.”  And I am his great great granddaughter! 

But the point is, I remember my dad telling me this story when I was fairly young, and I became kind of obsessed with these kids.  My sibs and I are all really close in age and post-parents-divorce we all began to operate as our own little gang.  I also remember my sister and I reading the Boxcar Children series (the story about four orphaned siblings who decide to live in a boxcar together rather than risk being separated in whatever foster care system existed in magical-children’s-book-land).  I think I melded the two stories in my mind (the true and the literary) and identified really strongly with them.  I mean, yeah, I had parents who loved me, but they were so self-absorbed in the divorce stuff (and I can’t really blame them) that between the post-divorce custody shuffling (we switched houses every other week) and the sibling constancy, in my mind we were our own little boxcar children, the kids who “made it”, just like the poor 6 kiddos orphaned by cholera back in the 1840s.  In middle school my sister and I used to talk about the four of us getting our own place and making our parents come visit US, rather than us being forced to go back and forth between THEM.  We pretty much wanted a boxcar?  Maybe a tiny cholera-quarantine shack?  I dunno.

So my answer is, I would absolutely love to meet those kids, back when they were younger and struggling with the loss, alone in that shack.  It reinforces my feeling that through childhood difficulty, siblings are the way to make it.  Plus, not to toot my own genetic-horn, but I bet those kids were really freaking cute.  I just want to snuggle up with them in their sad little cold shack in illinois and read them a bedtime story.  

I guess if I could get them to come back to this day and age, I would take them all out for ice cream, my treat (duh) and we would go to the river and eat our cones and tell stories until it got dark.  Then I would find them a nice place to stay and tuck them into bed and read them stories until they couldn’t keep their little eyes open and give them each a kiss goodnight.

OK, new question coming…NOW!  

preferablysomethingspecific asked: Dear Charlotte, what's the worst advice you ever took?

Good question!  This one is kind of tricky.  The answer is sort of a roundabout one, and relates not so much to advice as a piece of “life wisdom” that someone tried to give me.  ”Life wisdom” is, in itself, a term that smacks of feigned maturity and a tendency to paint the world in black and white, and considering the source (I’ll get to that in a moment) this little nugget of wisdom seems all the more dubious.  

Basically I was a ridiculously shy little kid, and kind of came into my own in college, and my romantic life followed suit.  So the first boy I ever seriously dated was in college, and while I was attracted to him (I had had a huge crush on him freshman year), I was skeptical of our actual chemistry as individuals.  So I muddled my way through this “relationship” until I really began to feel like “ok, there is definitely something lacking in this ‘us’”- but he seemed perfectly content with the situation.  And at the time I guess the fact that he had a history as a serial dater just gave him more credentials in my insecure, naive-to-romance mind (note: never date a serial dater).  

Anyway, I remember the first time I expressed the concerns regarding our chemistry (or lackthereof), I believe I started asking about his former relationships and he laughed and replied all-knowingly “Charlotte, all relationships are the same.  Every person you date- it’s exactly the same.”  And at the time I was like “wait…I feel like this is wrong” but I didn’t have the evidence to refute his smug little statement, so I kept quiet and let those words rattle around my brain for a while- well, for the past howevermanyyears since he let that little oh-so-romantic notion slip through the cracks. 

The good news?   Time and time again, he’s been proven so wrong.  Each person I’ve dated has taken such a different role in my life and has reshaped the idea of who I want as a partner.  I’ve grown through each relationship so much, and the people I’ve let into my life in an intimate role have pushed and supported me in their own unique ways, helping me to become into the person I am today.  

So sometimes a picture of him and his current girlfriend will pop up on facebook, and I’ll wonder- does he still really believe what he said?  Maybe this girl has changed him?  I hope so.  (He didn’t date anyone else between me and her, I think).  Relationships are and should be dynamic, living, breathing connections between people and each has it’s own color and shape.  And that’s what makes them so great.  Think of how many different kinds of friendships you have!  What if they all came in the same type?  Life would be so much more boring! 

OK I’m done with my ramble.  Good question though!  Got another coming up for you in a jiff!

preferablysomethingspecific asked: So it seems like you have the best suggestions when it comes to books, music, tumblrs, &c. My question is, what's your pop culture comfort food, the thing you reach for when you need to smile/cry/scream, and why. It can be a book, a play, a song, a tumblr devoted to bacon, whatever! (Mine is a poem by ee cummings, "since feeling is first," which years after discovering it in an English class still makes my heart a little fluttery on reading. :D)

Gosh, I really love this question- and for several reasons.  I feel like I dedicate a massive amount of time to exploring and “tasting” different pieces of pop-culture, taking things in and marking the things that make me “feel feelings” (as my friend franny puts it).  I feel like I’m building a little nest of these bits of music and words, a place where I can reach out and pluck a feeling from my immediate surrounding when all the other feelings I’m coming up with just aren’t cutting it.

Anyway.  There are so many levels on which I can answer this question, but I guess the best place to start is the bookstore.  Whenever I’m having a hard day (or a sad day, or a day off or sometimes even a happy day- oh gosh) I’ll go to Powell’s bookstore (the best bookstore EVER) and wander the aisles.  I’ll let myself read backs, inside covers, and sometimes even first chapters of books I find interesting.  But sometimes, often when Portland begins to feel just as rainy on the inside as it does on the outside, I change my browsing style and look particularly for books that I’ve read and loved.   I’ll pick a few out and flip to my favorite parts, and reread them.  Some books I’ve pulled recently have been “A Prayer for Owen Meany” (for the last chapter), “The World According to Garp” (also for the last chapter), A Hundred Years of Solitude (for the last few paragraphs), Sailing Alone Around a Room (A book of billy collin’s poetry- my first favorite poet- for several of the poems), Selected Poems by Frank O’Hara (for a few poems, but in particular “Meditations in an Emergency” and “Having a Coke with You,” The Master and Margarita (for that scene at the end right before Behemoth and Azazello are set free from their contract with the devil, and they come off as just this hilarious prankstery pair and it makes me smile), almost any of the books I’ve read by Haruki Murakami (in particular snippets from “After Dark” and first chapter from “The Windup Bird Chronicle”), Skinny Legs and All by Tom Robbins (oh my gosh, I could reread almost any part of that book and be happy.)  Those are the most recent ones I’ve reread parts of.  It’s an activity that I’d definitely recommend!  I’ve probably reread the last chapter from “The World According To Garp” like 20 times, and the last line never fails to give me the shivers.  

But that’s not really an answer to your question.  So here’s a more direct answer: I recently went through a shitty sort-of-break-up with this kid I was sort-of-seeing and, well, I was feeling really awful.  In an effot to cheer me up a friend of mine sent me part of a poem that she had seen posted on a tumblr of a friend of ours, and after reading it several times I went and found the rest of the poem.  I then continued to read it every few hours…for like, 3 days.  It somehow made me feel less alone in my sadness and anger, but also validated those feelings.  The poem is by Adrienne Rich (I’ve since bought a book of her poetry) and it’s called “Dedications” and can be found in her compilation “From an Atlas of the Difficult World.”  I’ll post it at the bottom.

Ok, before I sign out I want to say that I LOVE sharing the things that make me feel feelings, and I love love love when other people share the things that make them feel feelings with me!!  So let’s keep doing it! (and as I mentioned, I LOVE ee cummings, and I love that poem.  It’s pretty wonderful, isn’t it?)

Dedications, by Adrienne Rich

I know you are reading this poem
late, before leaving your office
of the one intense yellow lamp-spot and the darkening window
in the lassitude of a building faded to quiet
long after rush-hour. I know you are reading this poem
standing up in a bookstore far from the ocean
on a grey day of early spring, faint flakes driven
across the plains’ enormous spaces around you.
I know you are reading this poem
in a room where too much has happened for you to bear
where the bedclothes lie in stagnant coils on the bed
and the open valise speaks of flight
but you cannot leave yet. I know you are reading this poem
as the underground train loses momentum and before running
up the stairs
toward a new kind of love
your life has never allowed.
I know you are reading this poem by the light
of the television screen where soundless images jerk and slide
while you wait for the newscast from the intifada.
I know you are reading this poem in a waiting-room
of eyes met and unmeeting, of identity with strangers.
I know you are reading this poem by fluorescent light
in the boredom and fatigue of the young who are counted out,
count themselves out, at too early an age. I know
you are reading this poem through your failing sight, the thick
lens enlarging these letters beyond all meaning yet you read on
because even the alphabet is precious.
I know you are reading this poem as you pace beside the stove
warming milk, a crying child on your shoulder, a book in your
hand
because life is short and you too are thirsty.
I know you are reading this poem which is not in your language
guessing at some words while others keep you reading
and I want to know which words they are.
I know you are reading this poem listening for something, torn
between bitterness and hope
turning back once again to the task you cannot refuse.
I know you are reading this poem because there is nothing else
left to read
there where you have landed, stripped as you are.

preferablysomethingspecific asked: Dear Charlotte, how long has it been since we did this whole question thing? Feels like forever. So tell me, if you had to pick one game and play it forever (well, you could take breaks every so often, I guess) with one historical figure, what and with whom would it be?

ok, gosh-so for the game, i’d have to say “writey-drawey.”  writey-drawey is a game that most everyone has played, but by a different name every time.  it’s the game where you have a group of people sitting in a circle, and everyone has a piece of paper.  first everyone either writes about a random scenario/draws a picture of a random scenario, and then passes the paper to the person next to them, who does the opposite (either illustrates/draws a story from a picture, depending on the first move) and then folds the first thing over and passes it on.  it’s like a writing/drawing telephone game.  i have one friend who wont call it anything but “don’t shit on the cat”, and other friends who have called it by a million other names- but it was taught to me as “writey-drawey”, and will forever remain that way.

the person i’d have to choose- and i’ve thought about this a lot (and it matches up with my recent book recommendation to you)- is tom robbins.  he’s a current author, but he has such phenomenal descriptive talent and can seemingly pull metaphors out of thin air in the way that a magician might pull rabbits out of a hat (but like, neon purple rabbits with pink blazers.  it’s wild).  the stories that he comes up with are so real and yet so outrageous- he has taken the genre of “magical realism” and run with it in such amazing ways.  

so basically, i think if he were given a chance at the game, and if i could play with him, we would end up with some HILARIOUS scenarios.  and i love games like that.  if i could i would invite him to a dinner party tomorrow, just for the purpose of playing that game.

awesome question!! another one is coming soon.  also i am SO excited about your next question.  gahh!!!  i am SO glad we’re doing this again!

This tumblr is pretty much defunct, and it kind of drives me crazy that I can’t switch my secondary tumblr account with this one.  GRRR.  

Anyway, if you’re going to follow anything, please follow Rain In The Clouds Above (my ACTUAL tumblr)

My new favorite website. 

Taking song lyrics and making them about cats- what kind of genius came up with this?

relright:

there’s always money in the banana stand

Oh god, so funny…and so hard to decide??