exspearmint

@lculton.bsky.social

61 Followers 214 Following

poet (on hiatus), baseball bat craftsman. delighted by the surreal, perplexing, and the absurd.

Tweet from Grace Freud from 2019 reading: With the announcement of the new Garfield TV Show, I thought I'd share my favorite Jim Davis Quote! "Garfield has no asshole or urethra. All of the lasagna he eats stays in his stomach, all of the ketamine water he drinks stays in his bladder. If he were real he would grow larger than god then explode and there would be a reckoning and that is what I desire. - Jim Davis
2017 Tweet from "Chris @BassoonJokes" "the new healthcare plan is everybody gets 50 tylenol at birth. those are your tylenol. use them whenever or however you want."
Luis Arraez giving a thumbs up sign moments after forgetting first base actually exists as a physical object
the first page of Blood Meridian, which reads "Childhood in Tennessee – Runs away – New Orleans – Fights – Is shot – To Galveston – Nacogdoches – The Reverend Green – Judge Holden – An affray – Toadvine – Burning of the hotel – Escape. See the child. He is pale and thin, he wears a thin and ragged linen shirt. He stokes the scullery fire. Outside lie dark turned fields with rags of snow and darker woods beyond that harbor yet a few last wolves. His folk are known for hewers of wood and drawers of water but in truth his father has been a schoolmaster. He lies in drink, he quotes from poets whose names are now lost. The boy crouches by the fire and watches him. Night of your birth. Thirty-three. The Leonids they were called. God how the stars did fall. I looked for blackness, holes in the heavens. The Dipper stove. The mother dead these fourteen years did incubate in her own bosom the creature who would carry her off. The father never speaks her name, the child does not know it. He has a sister in this world that he will not see again. He watches, pale and unwashed. He can neither read nor write and in him broods already a taste for mindless violence. All history present in that visage, the child the father of the man. At fourteen he runs away. He will not see again the freezing"
Holding in my left hand, swaddled in a gray handkerchief, an egg-shaped ornament—big as a typical chicken egg—cut on a lathe from yellow birch wood
Two crayons of slightly varied shades of magenta. One is labeled "magenta," while the other appears to be labeled "not magenta." It's a sort of ironic little goof of a post just for my own entertainment and satisfaction.