brightwalldarkroom:

Excerpt from the new issue: Kelsey Ford on The Last Picture Show (1971):

“This world is black and white and simple. Tumbleweeds languish outside empty gas stations. Trucks rattle down the lonely road. There’s the street with the picture show, the diner, and the pool hall. There’s your car, parked alongside the curb. All empty and open and waiting.
You’re a young woman, or a young man, or a mother remembering what it was like to be young, fickle, and fresh. You want someone to touch you. Anyone to touch you. You want to get out, or you failed to get out, but staying alive in this place requires a fight you don’t always have in you. 
Here, everyone knows everybody else and you wish there was a way to escape that, but there’s not.
You play basketball, feel your girlfriend up in the backseat of the bus, go fishing with Sam the Lion, listen to his stories about youth and love and loss.
It’s Saturday night and the only thing to do is go to the picture show and grope in the back row, but even this has lost its amusement. You want more, but you don’t know what more means. You’ve already seen this picture three times.”

To read the rest of this essay, download the Bright Wall/Dark Room app on your iPhone or iPad for free, or subscribe online for $2 per month to receive immediate access to both the app and web-based versions of the magazine.

brightwalldarkroom:

Excerpt from the new issue: Kelsey Ford on The Last Picture Show (1971):

This world is black and white and simple. Tumbleweeds languish outside empty gas stations. Trucks rattle down the lonely road. There’s the street with the picture show, the diner, and the pool hall. There’s your car, parked alongside the curb. All empty and open and waiting.

You’re a young woman, or a young man, or a mother remembering what it was like to be young, fickle, and fresh. You want someone to touch you. Anyone to touch you. You want to get out, or you failed to get out, but staying alive in this place requires a fight you don’t always have in you. 

Here, everyone knows everybody else and you wish there was a way to escape that, but there’s not.

You play basketball, feel your girlfriend up in the backseat of the bus, go fishing with Sam the Lion, listen to his stories about youth and love and loss.

It’s Saturday night and the only thing to do is go to the picture show and grope in the back row, but even this has lost its amusement. You want more, but you don’t know what more means. You’ve already seen this picture three times.”


To read the rest of this essay, download the 
Bright Wall/Dark Room app on your iPhone or iPad for free, or subscribe online for $2 per month to receive immediate access to
both the app and web-based versions of the magazine.

Reblogged from brightwalldarkroom


This world is black and white and simple. Tumbleweeds languish outside empty gas stations. Trucks rattle down the lonely road. There’s the street with the picture show, the diner, and the pool hall. There’s your car, parked alongside the curb. All empty and open and waiting.
You’re a young woman, or a young man, or a mother remembering what it was like to be young, fickle, and fresh. You want someone to touch you. Anyone to touch you. You want to get out, or you failed to get out, but staying alive in this place requires a fight you don’t always have in you. 
Here, everyone knows everybody else and you wish there was a way to escape that, but there’s not.

I have an essay in BW/DR Magazine's July issue, alongside a gorgeous illustration by Brianna Ashby.

This world is black and white and simple. Tumbleweeds languish outside empty gas stations. Trucks rattle down the lonely road. There’s the street with the picture show, the diner, and the pool hall. There’s your car, parked alongside the curb. All empty and open and waiting.

You’re a young woman, or a young man, or a mother remembering what it was like to be young, fickle, and fresh. You want someone to touch you. Anyone to touch you. You want to get out, or you failed to get out, but staying alive in this place requires a fight you don’t always have in you. 

Here, everyone knows everybody else and you wish there was a way to escape that, but there’s not.

I have an essay in BW/DR Magazine's July issue, alongside a gorgeous illustration by Brianna Ashby.

ecantwell:

brightwalldarkroom:

Issue #14 comes out on Tuesday! The theme is Americana, and to that end we have essays for you on Boyhood, Badlands, Blue Velvet, Friday Night Lights, The Last Picture Show, Far from Heaven, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, and Lost in America.
Get it the day it comes out by subscribing now!

This is seriously a killer issue with some stunning writing. If you’re not a subscriber yet, you will WANT to read this issue, I promise you. (Coach Taylor! Jimmy Stewart! David Lynch! Suburban repression! Murder! THIS IS AMERICA!)

ecantwell:

brightwalldarkroom:

Issue #14 comes out on Tuesday! The theme is Americana, and to that end we have essays for you on Boyhood, Badlands, Blue Velvet, Friday Night Lights, The Last Picture Show, Far from Heaven, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, and Lost in America.

Get it the day it comes out by subscribing now!

This is seriously a killer issue with some stunning writing. If you’re not a subscriber yet, you will WANT to read this issue, I promise you. (Coach Taylor! Jimmy Stewart! David Lynch! Suburban repression! Murder! THIS IS AMERICA!)

(via filmprojections)

Reblogged from brightwalldarkroom

On Friday night, we walked down to the edge of the field. We were somewhere upstate, although I have no idea where; if given a map, I wouldn’t be able to point it out. We were watching for fireflies, which is always an exotic thing for me. There aren’t any fireflies in Washington state; the first time I saw one, I was taking the trash out in Greenpoint and it flitted between bins. One firefly had fallen between blades of grass; probably dying. I bent down and watched it strobe, its light so much like a blinking green LED.

I thought a lot about Adrienne Rich this weekend, which I haven’t really done since the end of senior year. I read Diving into the Wreck in my poetry class, coached through its ferocious language by my ferocious professor. She once asked me how I would describe a hut out the back window of her office; when I said it was a hut, she groaned with frustration.

There are those lines in that Rich poem: “the thing I came for: / the wreck and not the story of the wreck / the thing itself and not the myth.” And then, a little further down: “the ribs of the disaster / curving their assertion / among the tentative haunters.”

Midday yesterday, I took my laptop out to the edge of the yard, to a bench in the shade of a tree, and finished watching Stories We Tell. For a lot of it, I kept my eyes closed, just listening. It’s a remarkable documentary, but I especially loved toward the end, when her fathers and siblings discuss the nature of the story, the project of the documentary, and how letting many voices––even if contradictory––in can either falsify the story, or somehow help get closer to what really happened:

“When you’re in the middle of a story, it isn’t a story at all, but only a confusion, a dark roaring, a blindness, a wreckage of shattered glass, and splintered wood. It’s only afterwards that it becomes anything like a story at all, when you’re telling it to yourself, or to someone else.”

My sophomore year, in my psych course, I talked a lot with my professor about the nature and gradations of grief. We discussed how I am often in denial about the depth of those feelings, until I sit down to write about it. More recently, however, it’s become: until I read or watch something that slices at it, even if only tangentially.

It’s also always a kind of healing to get drunk off Lagavulin somewhere in the middle of nowhere you couldn’t name.

THIS WAS IN TEXAS 

I don’t remember the south. By the time my memory kicked in, I was living in the Pacific Northwest. But I am deeply familiar with that bodily need to be within weeds. For the first eighteen years of my life, the bottoms of my feet were callused, my legs used to pushing through bramble. My backyard was half an acre of grass, and then beneath that, four acres of untended wood.
Sometimes in the late afternoon, I’d go to the bottom of the yard and walk down a path, toward where the shadows grew thicker between trees. I’d taunt myself with how close I could get, alone, before turning and running back up, terrified that some rustling (surely only a rabbit or a bird) was a coyote or, worse, the mountain lion we were told had nested between branches.

I have an essay about Ain’t Them Bodies Saints & its particular sense of place in the latest issue of the always gorgeous & always intelligent Bright Wall/Dark Room. The essay has a gorgeous illustration by Sophie Foster-Dimino! And is available for free online! But I do highly recommend subscribing (if you haven’t already)––there are great pieces on (among others) Twin Peaks, Nebraska, Singles, & Beasts of the Southern Wild. 

THIS WAS IN TEXAS 

I don’t remember the south. By the time my memory kicked in, I was living in the Pacific Northwest. But I am deeply familiar with that bodily need to be within weeds. For the first eighteen years of my life, the bottoms of my feet were callused, my legs used to pushing through bramble. My backyard was half an acre of grass, and then beneath that, four acres of untended wood.

Sometimes in the late afternoon, I’d go to the bottom of the yard and walk down a path, toward where the shadows grew thicker between trees. I’d taunt myself with how close I could get, alone, before turning and running back up, terrified that some rustling (surely only a rabbit or a bird) was a coyote or, worse, the mountain lion we were told had nested between branches.

I have an essay about Ain’t Them Bodies Saints & its particular sense of place in the latest issue of the always gorgeous & always intelligent Bright Wall/Dark Room. The essay has a gorgeous illustration by Sophie Foster-Dimino! And is available for free online! But I do highly recommend subscribing (if you haven’t already)––there are great pieces on (among others) Twin Peaks, NebraskaSingles& Beasts of the Southern Wild

kendallstorey:


"Writing is drawing the essence of what we know out of the shadows. That is what writing is about. Not what happens there, not what actions are played out there, but the there itself. There, that is writing’s location and aim. But how do I get there?”

Karl Ove Knausgaard, My Struggle: Book One 

kendallstorey:

"Writing is drawing the essence of what we know out of the shadows. That is what writing is about. Not what happens there, not what actions are played out there, but the there itself. There, that is writing’s location and aim. But how do I get there?”

Karl Ove Knausgaard, My Struggle: Book One 

Reblogged from kendallstorey