tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16470648243197740402024-03-19T00:20:28.278-04:00Charcoal & RibbonAlison Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02159713182755790164noreply@blogger.comBlogger90125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1647064824319774040.post-46079439663428663982010-02-23T12:03:00.001-05:002010-02-23T12:04:43.375-05:00VISIT MY BRAND NEW BLOG<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b>I've transferred everything from his happy little place to a new home, <a href="http://aproposalison.com">Apropos Alison</a>.</b></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b>Come say hi, and don't forget to add my new site to your reader!</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b>xxxx</b></span></div></div>Alison Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02159713182755790164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1647064824319774040.post-15001694415630613772010-01-26T20:25:00.007-05:002010-01-26T20:37:26.382-05:00Mysticism, at its finest.On tuesdays, wednesdays, saturdays, Somedays,<div>the unspoken words of our unrequited characters crash</div><div>into the hard wood.</div><div><br /></div><div>The speakers scream</div><div>mouthfuls of ceramic tiles painted blue and green --</div><div>spilling into lagoon at the center of it all. </div><div><br /></div><div>And when the statue melts into the pediment</div><div>of your collared colloquialisms,</div><div>I'll mark it on my calendar,</div><div><br /></div><div>and dance to the sound</div><div>of your hair being brushed and</div><div>your fingers praying for Magic. </div>Alison Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02159713182755790164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1647064824319774040.post-25007101233535864902010-01-11T19:23:00.004-05:002010-01-11T19:25:55.650-05:00Scattered SwedesAn old favorite, a Scandanavian throw back. DUNGEN.<br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre; font-family:Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;font-size:10px;"><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:10px;"><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/XZGkCE_bsCU&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/XZGkCE_bsCU&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object></span></div></span>Alison Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02159713182755790164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1647064824319774040.post-15345964645039618472010-01-03T02:30:00.003-05:002010-01-11T18:59:35.984-05:00Trendy Suburban Get-Together, The MusicalHad some lovely old friends over for drinks, tasty food, and pleasantries tonight. Oh, and some delightfully cliche indie musics.<div><br /></div><div>Here's the pairing menu:<div><br /></div><div>Fleet Foxes | Tiger Mountain Peasant Song</div><div>RATATAT | Everest</div><div>The Bird & The Bee | F*cking Boyfriend</div><div>Camera Obscura | Razzle Dazzle Rose</div><div>Andrew Bird | Fitz & Dizzyspells</div><div>Sydney Wayser | La Di Da</div><div>Volcano Choir | Island, IS</div><div>Monsters of Folk | Dear God (Sincerely M.O.F.)</div><div>Asobi Seksu | Thursday</div><div>Bon Iver | Brackett, WI</div><div>Broken Social Scene | Swimmers</div><div>Lykke Li | Let It Fall</div><div>MGMT | Time to Pretend</div><div>The Smiths | There is a Light that Never Goes Out</div><div>Radical Face | Welcome Home</div><div>Radiohead | Weird Fishes/Arpeggi</div><div>Regina Spektor | Two Birds</div><div>Stereolab | Window Weirdo</div></div>Alison Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02159713182755790164noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1647064824319774040.post-68039517649132113632009-12-29T01:52:00.000-05:002009-12-29T01:53:16.296-05:00(Let's measure this in) Metric.<span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre; font-family:Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;font-size:10px;"><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/tIGjQdiOfEU&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/tIGjQdiOfEU&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object></span>Alison Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02159713182755790164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1647064824319774040.post-44945134671650819812009-12-21T13:38:00.002-05:002009-12-21T13:40:43.975-05:00Radiohead, meet The Smiths<div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">Cover of The Smiths'</span> </i><i>The Headmaster Ritual</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/LtmS2ePSSdU&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/LtmS2ePSSdU&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Alison Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02159713182755790164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1647064824319774040.post-28292513802886476902009-12-18T01:18:00.003-05:002009-12-18T01:33:44.442-05:00Broad LeavesIn the morning light bittersweet kissed my hair <br /><br />Shedding slowly like the feathers from the barn owl I used to love<br />Molting seems too ugly a word to describe the release<br /><br />We used to play with Stories in the tall grass<br />Like finding syllables in seed pods, you'd say<br /><br />How perfectAlison Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02159713182755790164noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1647064824319774040.post-69374632717210136532009-12-08T22:58:00.002-05:002009-12-09T06:39:52.307-05:00Untitled 3The piles of heavy rocks stood tall in the open field where they fell in love. Stacked solid against one another, the weight changes their shapes and things. Sometimes when the light falls strangely and foreign against the places he once thought were familiar, shadows and mists and old leaves tell stories that taste right. And safe. <br /><br />If you fall quietly into the wool, there's a chance he'll find you there again. Because when it's silent, there's nothing more to do than look for one another. It's hard to know what lives underneath that soil now. I suppose someone along the way has just learned to assume his field and grass and consistent expressions have been forgotten. <br /><br />But I think if look closely, you'll see that the view from here isn't bad. The city below, where the sheep and cicadas and stalled cars wait for the signs of him again. Emerging from deep within the shoveled sand and snow, in our city bed, a world is left unsettled by unsettled by unsettled.Alison Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02159713182755790164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1647064824319774040.post-21297941262483589532009-12-06T22:01:00.003-05:002009-12-06T22:07:41.385-05:00And and andThis is all I want. Slipping into sleep with the weight of your should on mine until the sun rises and sets again. Soft cells sinking. Ink drying. And praying for something placid. <br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/YndmqbUZ_x8&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/YndmqbUZ_x8&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br />"I am a strange loop" Arms & SleepersAlison Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02159713182755790164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1647064824319774040.post-57248943682185515832009-11-24T18:54:00.007-05:002009-11-24T19:30:45.710-05:00Untitled 2I was happy sick for days when I thought you had told me the tonic. But when we packed it all into boxes I knew that where the cardboard met the puddle it would melt into wasted paper and that would be that. So how dare you look at me with that listerine mouth of yours. I know it stings too. I've folded your self righteous shirts for too long and I need to launder myself now. So learn to iron and lather, rinse, repeat me from your world.Alison Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02159713182755790164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1647064824319774040.post-52723907513432126502009-11-23T18:26:00.008-05:002009-11-24T14:33:18.845-05:00Untitled 1That morning, just after the kettle screamed the world awake, she tied a ribbon into her hair like a sweet white flame striking in the pulpit of a young flower. The earth spun faster than usual as the sun slid quickly across the kitchen floor playing in the pieces of scattered glass. A collection of misplaced paradigms, he sat in the chair in the corner next to the lamp that has never worked and the old porcelain statue of a fawn, listening to the world. Like the broken chain of a favorite necklace lost between the radiator and the wall, the metals in her face, too expensive to magnetize, waited to be found. So the two sat in silence. Kissed in the quiet. And waited to burn the world down.Alison Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02159713182755790164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1647064824319774040.post-21669511197659256822009-11-14T14:37:00.002-05:002009-11-14T14:39:01.068-05:00But This House Just Ain't No HomeBill cries in this clip. I've never noticed until today. <br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre; font-family:Arial, sans-serif;font-size:10px;"><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/tIdIqbv7SPo&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/tIdIqbv7SPo&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object></span>Alison Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02159713182755790164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1647064824319774040.post-46965688742017368772009-11-11T15:31:00.003-05:002009-11-24T18:49:58.816-05:00GNARLS BARKLEY COVERING RADIOHEAD'S "RECKONER"This is almost too good to handle. I'm DYING.<div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre; font-family:Arial, sans-serif;font-size:10px;"><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/RUmmsMeHAaE&hl=en&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/RUmmsMeHAaE&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object></span></div>Alison Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02159713182755790164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1647064824319774040.post-15851911558515568792009-10-29T20:56:00.006-04:002009-10-29T21:42:22.009-04:00Grey White GreyTonight, you can wear my skin as your skin<div>It's tough and worn and impermeable and impossible</div><div>with the date stamped even though the queue is long</div><div>because it seems all a bit Dali</div><div><br /></div><div>But on nights like this </div><div>when the soft of clouds is scratchy like a sweater on sale </div><div>it will fit like a pigeon in a clouded window </div><div>or a spiked sill </div><div><br /></div><div>And the sun will stay set for a while this time </div><div>Because he's tired and I'm tired and sleep would come easy </div><div>if the curtains weren't drawn and the timing wasn't wrong</div><div>And I knew the words that fit easily in your lips and mouth and tongue</div><div><br /></div><div>And if our beating hearts were proximal like we're taught to understand</div><div>and the dirt we breathe could be listed as </div><div>holistic and sadistic and scientific</div><div>I would tell you the truth</div><div><br /></div><div>But the worms have lied </div><div>and the birds aren't early </div><div>so no one gets anything except the feeling of empty </div><div>and a shaking hand holding a sallow lantern</div><div><br /></div><div>But when my hair is tied back with twine </div><div>and the Autumn feels sweet and safe again</div><div>Things will return to almost as they were </div><div>before the fall</div>Alison Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02159713182755790164noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1647064824319774040.post-4872933413926686642009-10-29T15:49:00.009-04:002009-10-29T16:35:23.949-04:00Barcelona (or, In a city built on waves of beautiful glass)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTxpKyFO91kKTJYRpHpY7046eQJrnMLGzM1eeEc4YcghDF8tnb6s7eHbhZmnUUTjIPsJpXqa4YPV-P2YrjAm00WA0YRUa_gDUWBZxhvPYHXVUSpYOi5GRyFs6j89IuUNv8KcCJmCBCvig/s1600-h/DSC01853.JPG"><img style="display:block; 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margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4a84IBYcHghGKSP5qmiU6vr0OZbmsErHzYpxDh6RhD8pDEKY87xUGmEceM-jQKc8VgnEnj-Nz3gkaRCqMyF8vaieaX6GKzthF_m1sCuWPQ4PyxGX-qRhSYRY4mT9SVy7a3YcJUcrFTtk/s400/DSC01758.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398114618776669714" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcjteiSu0MPpaeB16KLHSLCDLmhMKKX7ZhV-jFIamZxc-LFJd2I3-0iULr4CPcYAwDMRRLgJoJb4yD64UFDzr4UHIFRStKxFt9y0nOsy3MW19Lnak9jBDZMgshuF2LEGwGGI4MqkPjRJs/s1600-h/DSC01748.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcjteiSu0MPpaeB16KLHSLCDLmhMKKX7ZhV-jFIamZxc-LFJd2I3-0iULr4CPcYAwDMRRLgJoJb4yD64UFDzr4UHIFRStKxFt9y0nOsy3MW19Lnak9jBDZMgshuF2LEGwGGI4MqkPjRJs/s400/DSC01748.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398113365450119650" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWHhbvoKk549Pe_96AERXOEFYWM5zo6qE5VnDFPauI00aA0Z5CbzvqWWcLfGKAx1Uyrxygg6PUFLsQOkEOA3hRS9wa_y8k2QPDGJKKjUfrNgcgYQ5svHzlCcSh6diHALo4BDIhI1DQgMU/s1600-h/DSC01713.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWHhbvoKk549Pe_96AERXOEFYWM5zo6qE5VnDFPauI00aA0Z5CbzvqWWcLfGKAx1Uyrxygg6PUFLsQOkEOA3hRS9wa_y8k2QPDGJKKjUfrNgcgYQ5svHzlCcSh6diHALo4BDIhI1DQgMU/s400/DSC01713.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398112138881627490" /></a>Alison Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02159713182755790164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1647064824319774040.post-41214730542123958772009-10-29T15:30:00.002-04:002009-10-29T15:35:40.928-04:00PJ Harvey and John Parish "Blackhearted Love"Well isn't this lovely dark and deep.<div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre; font-family:Arial, sans-serif;font-size:10px;"><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/waL5UD1pimg&hl=en&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/waL5UD1pimg&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object></span></div>Alison Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02159713182755790164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1647064824319774040.post-89369116953788855402009-10-26T09:46:00.000-04:002009-10-26T09:47:03.196-04:00The Cure "The Lovecats"<span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre; font-family:Arial, sans-serif;font-size:10px;"><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/OwPhbsz-QKQ&hl=en&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/OwPhbsz-QKQ&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object></span>Alison Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02159713182755790164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1647064824319774040.post-15762255613810150162009-10-15T20:15:00.003-04:002009-10-15T20:23:48.627-04:00On the Morning of My Release<div>And the wood cracks and cracks and snaps and </div><div>when the leaves begin to fall like splinters of themselves </div><div>I miss what was</div><div><br /></div><div>When the green light is new it rises and lifts and applauds </div><div>our youth and hair and skin </div><div>And in that moment you looked so gold</div><div><br /></div><div>Truths were told and folded and beholded </div><div>when the sky was something grey like a wolf </div><div>that only wanted to sleep, not eat</div><div><br /></div><div>And inside wanted outside with the tag out </div><div>but you'd fix it for me </div><div>because I'd fix it for you</div>Alison Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02159713182755790164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1647064824319774040.post-86140556777759169962009-10-04T17:18:00.002-04:002009-10-04T17:20:35.498-04:00Where's the Garbage Bin?<div style="text-align: left;">Sometimes I write things. And then realize it's complete rubbish.</div><div><br /></div><div>The aftermath: </div><div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzfL3omb52Ma0OOMMxNJxpKIaKmeZQgkn-cRf-SIHA7e4B34SP1_qM0QRPRKQeWcvKWrStCjIgihx8rSbxqD9MEJwz8dvnBMUhXLr4biY4i69NboCRQD2MpNqEX0NoftIV2GojFbzuBoc/s400/DSC01700.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5388857712915826082" /></div>Alison Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02159713182755790164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1647064824319774040.post-71288330245049970342009-10-03T15:15:00.000-04:002009-10-03T15:16:53.485-04:00In One Night: Grizzly Bear, meet The Knife<object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/2byigN_5M4Y&hl=en&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/2byigN_5M4Y&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Alison Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02159713182755790164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1647064824319774040.post-91356192940312641192009-09-30T18:48:00.006-04:002009-10-01T09:17:12.393-04:00A Love Letter<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWP7OpxGsxVp1qMBkY-el1Z6CJJ9P2cCbR4Ee9CaAHmDWRvVYHbwdy-EAFLh_uyKd8ByfBotCNeoSztvYdNNkjQCuiKoxR_bB1EYC-0nN_Zl5du0fjjN3gnl7K_U2DoaUE95B5rC0MSJ8/s1600-h/DSC01696.jpg" style="text-decoration: none;"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWP7OpxGsxVp1qMBkY-el1Z6CJJ9P2cCbR4Ee9CaAHmDWRvVYHbwdy-EAFLh_uyKd8ByfBotCNeoSztvYdNNkjQCuiKoxR_bB1EYC-0nN_Zl5du0fjjN3gnl7K_U2DoaUE95B5rC0MSJ8/s400/DSC01696.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387396952510910530" /></a>Alison Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02159713182755790164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1647064824319774040.post-41747793828813178302009-09-28T18:26:00.001-04:002009-09-28T18:26:35.154-04:00Bill Evans "Waltz for Debbie"<object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/dH3GSrCmzC8&hl=en&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/dH3GSrCmzC8&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Alison Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02159713182755790164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1647064824319774040.post-80550173989987875342009-09-28T08:36:00.004-04:002009-09-28T08:50:28.614-04:00Sweet Sweet South Ken<div style="text-align: left;">Home is a fickle little anomaly of sorts -- something of a mashing between familiar and comfortable and predictable. Little by little my London life is beginning to feel a bit more like home. I find myself missing Boston more than I expected, but I think it's just the confusion of existing in the space between two places that I've fallen in love with. I feel like I'm cheating on Boston with London and London with Boston. It's a shame I can't strap time into my sidecar and take it with me, only unbuckling it when I feel city satiated.</div><div><br /></div><div>But, for now, this is home or something like it:</div><div><br /></div><div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnRcCOYbAySWM3z4P1bYVJGR3hUSfCe0IIYETwvDwNjyJTBXtrSOjlUpAsRnP4xGtHD1WCEMEuVhc5Km-0_UTUdxZITyqUXU12I72bZS8s-CKJ_zMxnPZe1_T3gihSuKhImt-xjrBACLM/s400/DSC01691.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386499396508792674" /></div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUVGKvJr3Ir9hn8zWgGAN-wSHiOWea6ZCR4d-olq1kNjkulSW0spT_ebsb9pnxBAXzHLssASvvEwqWPFSSqNeap43eMXQQwu3pOjQB5OxjnzDil_YCSGOvPsUUCV42XYtpw2aaA0rFxOE/s400/DSC01686.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386498988871355618" /><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM8tZ86vRYkXxSiJWi6M6DLSbOLMzpuARm026jcqEKY7ZV57_CqeXYzEirsMjszmkFp5NdlzBvUiC5aI0qHp79YwmvtvwmNyOfuCvHSlEkyFjBy6ZF2UApumlx50nozRKnH2pwBDwqN9A/s400/DSC01680.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386498847378051554" />Alison Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02159713182755790164noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1647064824319774040.post-74830695859567990542009-09-26T20:51:00.002-04:002009-09-26T20:57:25.562-04:00I Miss My Books (or, Dear Miranda July, let's be friends?)From Miranda July's <i>No One Belong Here More Than You:</i><div><blockquote>Teachers of subjects that this person wasn't even good at are kissing this person and renouncing the very subjects they taught. Math teachers are saying that math was just a funny way of saying "I love you"</blockquote></div>Alison Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02159713182755790164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1647064824319774040.post-38522008260278444512009-09-20T18:39:00.003-04:002009-09-20T18:45:16.505-04:00Fish and Hot Chip(s)Hot Chip "Over and Over": my life in short.<div><br /></div><embed id="VideoPlayback" src="http://video.google.com/googleplayer.swf?docid=2678294434021268517&hl=en&fs=true" style="width:400px;height:326px" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed><div><br /></div><div>(read: unbelievably surreal in the most amazing of ways)</div>Alison Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02159713182755790164noreply@blogger.com0