Red Lemonaders, Facebook Friends, Twitter followers: we welcome all party-goers and carousers this evening to share our one year birthday celebration. Tomorrow we write, tonight we dance! Let us know where you are connecting, Red Lemonade gatherings have been planned in NYC, Atlanta, Portland and more… Raise a Red Fizzy (or your fav beverage) and share a toast with other community members across the country and the globe. Join the Red Thread on our online community site at redlemona.de or tweet your birthday declarations with #redlemon1
“Every form of addiction is bad, no matter whether the narcotic be alcohol, morphine or idealism.” Carl Jung
“You just ain’t no good unless you can see a symbol hiding, like a scared gerbil, under every page.”
― Ursula K. LeGuin
“You realize,” Phil Resch said quietly, “What this would do. If we included androids in our range of empathetic identification, as we do animals.”
“We couldn’t protect ourselves.”
—Philip K. Dick
You must read “For Provisional Description of Superficial Features” by Matthew Battles. And, also, you must read this interview at PANK.
I have always loved to use fear, to take it and comprehend it and make it work and consolidate a situation where I was afraid and take it whole and work from there.
I guess you could say I like an aura of mystery but really what I think I like is the idea of reclaiming these writers from dusty shelves. As the amazing British novelist Sarah Waters (who never gets enough love on American lit-sites) wrote recently, Warner’s obscurity ‘baffles,…
There are some days I really don’t like poetry. Is it okay to admit this? There are some days I don’t want to look up at the world, nor share my air with anyone, and I don’t even want horseradish in my Bloody Mary to cure my metaphysical hangover. Then I re-find Matthew Dickman’s love poem, and I take a deep, deep, breath and everything gently opens once again.
Today is one of those days where everyone is crazier than they should be, and nothing I do is original. I was reading Virginia Woolf on the light rail, looking up after a particularly gorgeous sentence (and I said to the star, “Consume me.”) Across from me, yes, a girl wearing aqua blue pants and lime green sneakers is also reading Woolf. Hers is Night & Day, and mine is The Waves. Especially with the explosion of the internet age, there seems to be an endless amount of intense scrutiny regarding isolation and the deterrence of people making real, human connections as so many of us bow our heads and stare at the glowing screens of our cellphones. And if you live in the city, you can’t help but come into contact with those that actually do want to talk, that will prattle on Dogberry-style about the Egyptians and the man who killed himself by jumping splat out a window, who will flap his arms and talk even as we go through a tunnel and everyone is giving off desperate (though polite) body cues to please, please, just to relax and let be. Is there a danger of isolation, or the Google opposite of just too much connection to get through to anyone? How can we listen to each other or focus on just one person when the whole world seems like it’s shouting for your attention, drowning out your voice and your idea for something newer, bigger, brighter, louder, leaving you to wonder if it’s all just superficial and that God is dead, and nobody out there is getting you. (And I said to the star, “Consume me.”) Well, I guess that’s what I’ve been feeling like on this day, just before I noticed another soul out there reading the same voice as I was reading. Why was she reading Virginia? I’m not sure. I didn’t say a word to her. I only showed my book to her as I got off at my stop, and we exchanged a genuine smile. So, I know that the name of the game for art and writing is usually to stand out and be totally, radically different. I know that sometimes in my head, I hear a nasty inner editor chiding me for delving into territory that has been done before. But here’s to those quite moment of sharing something in common. Here’s to that girl in the lime green sneakers who, for whatever reason, chose to read Virginia Woolf at the same exact moment as I did on the same exact spot. It’s not really a big thing. In fact, it’s a very small thing, so small it barely deserves attention. Still, it’s genuine. A genuine connection on a Thursday afternoon, and I just wanted to share.