June 2012
8 posts
May 2012
23 posts
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People who give up the privilege of cleaning their own houses—they’re insane people.
If you do not clean: how do you know if you’ve made any progress in life? I love dust. The dust always makes progress. Then I remove the dust. That is progress.
If it were not for dust I think I would die. If there were no dust to clean then there would be so much leisure time and so much...
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I’m walking through the grocery store picking up ingredients to make salsa.
I see a girl that I went to high school with and duck down an aisle to hide.
As I look at the peppers I start feeling sorry that I hid.
In the frozen foods aisle I see the girl again. She’s walking with another girl.
When she gets about 4 feet away I say enthusiastically - “Hi Ashley!”. Smile....
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some "authentic" thoughts
I originally wrote this post a couple of weeks or so ago when that Things I’m Afraid to Tell You thing took a small portion of the blog world by a sort of mini-storm.
I was going to post it on Gems…. but then didn’t.
I thought it might make people mad and I decided that it might be better to keep it hanging around in my draft folder….. until tonight when I decided on a...
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Despite the fact that I don’t write with children in mind, I long ago discovered that they make the best audience. They certainly make the best critics. They are more candid and to the point than professional critics. Of course, almost anybody is. But when children love your book, it’s “I love your book, thank you, I want to marry you when I grow up.” Or it’s “Dear Mr. Sendak: I hate your book....
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It’s my battleground. It’s where I express myself. It’s where I consolidate my powers and put them together in what I hope is a legitimate, viable form that is meaningful to somebody else and not just to me. It’s where I work. It’s where I put down those fantasies that have been with me all my life, and where I give them a form that means something. I live inside the picture book; that’s where I...
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Where the Wild Things Are was not meant to please everybody—only children. A letter from a seven-year-old boy encourages me to think that I have reached children as I had hoped. He wrote: “How much does it cost to get to where the wild things are? If it is not expensive my sister and I want to spend the summer there. Please answer soon.” I did not answer that question, for I have no doubt that...
“One of the biggest fallacies in the way we talk about art is this idea that somehow personal taste equates to quality: That each of us miraculously only enjoys movies and music that are the best of their respective medium, and ergo, any movies and music we don’t enjoy must be terrible. It’s a standard we generally only apply to art (well, and politics). If we dislike salmon, we don’t...
TV’s gift to bad actors at Salon.com →
