Oh, hello. I'm Meaghan O'Connell.
Welcome to my tumblr! I have been writing and reading here since 2008. Here are some highlights.
I worked at Tumblr for awhile in the early days, and then Kickstarter for a bit longer.
These days, I get to spend my mornings as Associate Editor of The Billfold, and my afternoons doing whatever the hell I please (okay, writing).
In 2010, I spent a long time co-editing and -publishing and -rallying around a thing called Coming & Crying. If you like sex and feelings and have $8, you can buy the e-book here.
And sure, follow me on Twitter if you want, you pervert.
Life is hard. Here is someone.
I am still devouring book two of My Struggle and all I want is to read it (and to write, and be alone, like the narrator, and his writing has completely leeched into mine which would worry me but I’m too busy being elated that the words are coming).
And I re-read Nina’s Knausgaard piece and this struck me:
The grocery checkout line speaks to the audacity of detail in Knausgaard’s work, which is impossible not to remark on. In a typical paragraph, he recounts, in a café scene, filling two glasses with water, slicing bread, picking up the cutlery, grabbing “a couple small packets of butter and some napkins.” I do not believe he is trying to elevate these quotidian moments to something infused with beauty and meaning. He presents these details because they possess the possibility of meaning. It is a choice — another struggle — to remain open to reality on the dayest-to-day level.
YES! THAT’S WHAT IT IS.
I was so excited to read this.
How he gets away with it, I do not know. But he really does.
1:23 pm • 8 August 2013 • 16 notes
Everyone around me can hear the music through my sound-cancelling headphones.
12:47 pm • 8 August 2013 • 23 notes
Today at French my partner was getting really flustered and was wearing the wrong glasses so she could barely read her worksheet and after she fumbled her way through some, “Do you have a pen? Yes I have a pen,” drills she looked up at me and said, “I’m so sorry. For a minute there I felt a flash of what it was like to be mentally retarded.”
Without thinking I just said, “Well, good for empathy?”
4:46 pm • 6 August 2013 • 14 notes
Last night I had a dream I was at a poetry reading, standing in the kitchen of the home of a good friend, and during the reading some guy started doing the dishes by spraying 409 (or something like it) on them. I whisper-yelled at him to stop and he ignored me. I started freaking out and was like THAT’S POISONOUS and he got pissed at me and we had a screaming match and then the “host” of this reading, some fucking woman, looked at me and was like, “Nah-ah. You aren’t welcome here. You can’t come to the next one.” And I felt really sad and rejected by this poetry collective, and started to walk away, then turned around and was like, “WELL GUESS WHAT. I am friends with the people who own this house, so next time you meet here, you can’t keep me out. I’m gonna sit on the balcony in a ball gown and drop popcorn on your heads.”
1:34 pm • 5 August 2013 • 21 notes
I just started book two of the Knausgaard (this is like my Game of Thrones), which Dustin tried to get me to read forever but I never listen to his book recommendations because we have such different taste, and probably also because I know it drives him crazy. But when Nina loved it, I gave in. It is very boring at parts — purposely so, I’m told, but still don’t quite believe — but I still read it. It’s just this dude writing about his entire banal life (or so he makes it seem to the reader). Slogging through the boring parts make the make the good parts really sing — you really feel them, really know him, and the stakes, and where he’s coming from. I want to dismiss it as almost cheating (narratively), or better yet, indulgent — though if it’s so indulgent, why did I read the whole book and pick up the next one? His style, at first glance, is barely noticeable, but I think must seems to be his personality, his perspective, his own tics and ruminations, end up being style itself.
All I came here to say, though, is that this whole time I have subconsciously imagined the narrator, Karl Ove Knausgaard, to be Louis C.K.
1:49 pm • 4 August 2013 • 4 notes
peter paul and mary lyrics for the arrogant men in your life
He’s a martyr, he thinks he’s a prophet
But he’s a coward, he’s just playing a game
He can’t do it, he can’t change it
It’s been going on for ten thousand years
1:05 pm • 31 July 2013 • 11 notes
This crazy bitch. I’m re-reading A Good Man is Hard to Find for the first time in a long time and let me just say, GIRRRRRRL.
11:10 am • 31 July 2013 • 33 notes
When I first went to school I came home upset, crying to my mother that everyone knew how to read but me.
She laughed and said, Oh baby, no they don’t, how do you know.
Yes they do, Mom, I insisted, I can tell because during Silent Reading time they all look at their books and their lips are moving!
I was very upset.
"Oh, Meaghan," she said. "What do you do while everyone else is reading?"
"Well," I say, "I don’t want anyone to know, so I look at the pages and move my lips."
9:20 pm • 30 July 2013 • 101 notes
Today started with Dustin awake earlier than usual. Six, he says. He decided he would squeeze-spoon me even though I was asleep, because he is evil. In doing so, he woke me up just enough so that I could feel that my arm, too, was asleep — numb — and having him squeeze me was incredibly disturbing and… untenable. I tried to yell “Stop, stop, my arm is asleep!” but what came out, he says, was, “Steep! Steep, steeeeeep.” When I woke up for real a few hours later, he skipped over to the bed and asked me if I remembered what I dreamed about, figuring I would say I was climbing a mountain.
No you sonuvabitch you squeezed my dead arm at six in the morning.
this is poetry, isn’t it? is that silly to think or does anyone else understand why.
It’s a poetic idea rendered poorly. Here I’ll do a new version for you, titled,
No you sonuvabitch you squeezed my dead arm at six in the morning
Today started with Dustin awake earlier than usual. Six, he says. He squeezed me to him, woke me up enough for me to notice that my arm, too, was still asleep — numb. See I was in my body but hadn’t yet grabbed hold of it. He’d gotten there first.
On pins and needles and with great effort, I tried to yell out to him:
“Stop, stop, my arm is asleep!”
What came out, I’m told, was: “Steep! Steep, steeeeeep.”
When, hours later, I sat up in bed, he hurried in from the other room. “Do you want to tell me about your dream?” he asks me, petting my head, ready to hear that I climbed a great mountain.
7:34 pm • 30 July 2013 • 37 notes
an aside / a small thrill
Friday afternoon I was walking down the street in downtown Brooklyn in a terrible mood and a guy holding a cigarette half-walked into me as he passed. Or he didn’t move to the side, and I didn’t either. We played chicken. I was as previously mentioned, despondent enough to barely register it, our shoulders checking each other as we walked. He, however, turned back around and yelled, “HOW DUMB CAN YOU BE, LADY, YOU JUST WALKED INTO MY CIGARETTE.”
In a moment of pure inspiration, I shot up both of my middle fingers and, without turning around, yelled FUCK YOUUUUUUU.
1:26 pm • 28 July 2013 • 64 notes