Distribution Automatique

Saturday, May 13


Everything is pushing my buttons today- except the one that says "on."


Peace and quiet- there goes the diet.

Friday, May 12


How many nascent ideas, skewered like game, lay dead at your feet?


Time wasted is time tasted.

Thursday, May 11


As the truth tellers grow more numerous, passionate and articulate, the liars become more organized, cunning and cruel.


Open your mind quickly and your mouth slowly.

Tuesday, May 9


As perplexity frequently foreshadows the new, adoration as often augurs the old.


Opinions and affections mixed together, like vinegar and oil, may spice something bland, but left to themselves they quickly separate.

Monday, May 8


It's molting season: shed the old regrets and fly.


Don't be too nicey to those who are icy.

Sunday, May 7


Wit is used more often to silence than to say.


Ipod therefore I am.


A Writer's Lament: the Bipolar side of Blake

Came across this surprisingly personal poem by Blake, written in a letter to Thomas Butts, August 16, 1803.

"O why was I born with a different face?
Why was I not born like the rest of my race?
When I look each one starts! When I speak I offend;
Then I'm silent & passive & lose every Friend.

Then my verse I dishonor. My pictures despise,
My person degrade & my temper chastise;
And the pen is my terror, the pencil my shame;
All my Talents I bury, and dead is my Fame.

I am either too low or too highly priz'd;
When Elate I am Envied, when Meek I'm despis'd."

[Penguin Classics Blake
edited by Alicia Ostriker]