hipster lit


How to Make a Ghost of a Poet:

i. Give him his words and take away his voice. Make him chase his muse into the thirst of Tartaros, parch him with your memory.

ii. Leave your thumbprints on the trigger of his heart. Laugh as their battle lines start to fade, like a crime scene committed in a hotel room where the air was thick with the sweat of wanting more.

iii. Look at him with that light in your eyes, tell him the name of a road that leads to home. He will travel down the veins in your eyes, searching for pomegranates.

iv. Make him apologize for falling in love, make him apologize for feeling human again. You never cared about what I deserve. You never cared about what I deserve.

v. Write someone else’s name on his gravestone. That way, the love will almost reach him.

vi. Pretend it wasn’t a crime scene, then take the nearest exit home.

vii. I’m sorry for Room 2429; I just wanted to love you better.

(please don’t remove caption/source)

Hipster Lit?

I have to admit, despite attending a (very) liberal arts school for undergrad and then living in very “hipster-centric” areas, neither of us had heard of Hipster Lit.

I quite literally laughed out loud when I stumbled upon an article on The New Yorker’s Book Bench blog called “Hamptons Hipsters.”

Upon further investigation we found that Flavorwire had made a list a few years back of ultimate hipster reads.

Good Reads also has a list of their own.

The majority of the books on these lists make sense, things you would expect like Slaughterhouse-Five, On the Road, and The Catcher in the Rye. 

What we’re wondering is what makes these books Hipster Lit.

Chick Lit is an easy cocktail to make: One part romance, one part shopping, and two parts easily understood language and concepts. Add a dash of motherhood if desired.

Frat Lit is also fairly easy to comprehend. Drinking, girls, and most likely some sort of “life-changing” adventure–generally a road trip, but not always. Easy.

The books included in these hipster lists are all over the place. So it seems that the only common thread is the assumed reader’s appearance. 

It just seems a bit strange to us that this emerging genre has less to do with the content and more to do with an image. 

P.S. The top photo was taken from one of our all time favorite tumblr’s Hot Guys Reading Books.

This isn’t happening. No. Fucking. Way.

               I slowly take off my party hat (one of those cheesy Class of 2014 things from the local grocery store), and feel myself go under, my confidence melting; even the alcohol in my bloodstream is disappearing. Why is this happening?

          Only when I’m safely behind the couch do I dare to think about what’s happening around me. I close my eyes and I’m 17 years old again, and at the drunken ruckus that’s my graduation party. I feel Melissa’s soft breath on my shoulder as she giggles and whispers that Jake was staring; Dell visibly rolls her eyes, and looks surprised when I shake my head at her, willing her not to embark on another long (and boring) speech against the stupidity of teenagers.

          I turn my head nonchalantly; Jake is staring. “Go. Now,” Melissa ordered in an uncharacteristically stern voice. She wasn’t even smiling.

          I down another cup of watery beer and grimace, that didn’t have the intended effect of courage. Whatever. I need to do this. Jake and me, we were cosmic together..

(Freshman year: We’re lab partners at pig-dissecting biology, and we’re having a who’s-more-squeamish competition.

                                “check this out,” he nods holding up some obscure part of the pigs gut.

                         "That wasn’t even gross,“ I fire back, holding up an eyeball.

                                "Put that down,” he cautions slowly.

                          I prick up my ears, was that weakness I sensed?

                                 "Why?“ I smile, mocking a throw at him and watching him wince.

                          "Because,” he said, picking up that same ugly piece of pig gut…and throwing it at me!

                                  “PIG FIGHT!!!” I yell, and all hell breaks loose.

                           We served our 7 week detention together by picking up after the Varsity girls tennis team.)

      That memory warms me up; I pull off my ridiculously high heels, and walk towards him, I may or may not have been trying to be sexy (I was 17, don’t judge). He was talking to some of the douchebags from the Swim team, and I decide to wait; what could be more awkward than running into your hot (and douchey) swimmer ex-boyfriend at your graduation party?

(Sophomore year: Quin Langley asks me to junior prom. Quin Langleythe hot half-Portugese soccer star.

                             Jake only finds out when he finds me prom dress shopping.

                                    “What’s the pretty dress for Bradford?” he asked laughing, “Want to wear it on a                                    date?”

                             "On a date with who?“ I asked confusedly, "I’m going to prom.”

                                       "Really?“ he asked, his eyes widening, "Who with?”

                              I winced; strangely, I didn’t want to tell him.

                                        “Quin Langley?” I said.

                              “Oh,” he stuttered, “nice….the dress is really pretty by the way Crissy. I uh gotta go,”

                               I watched him practically run away preoccupiedly. I liked the way he said my name.)

         "Bradford!“ Robin’s shaky voice broke me out of my daydream, "nice dress..”

“Thanks Robin,” I said into his shoulder as he gave me a surprise hug, “where’s Laura?”

         "Laura dumped me yesterday,“ he whispered bluntly into my ear. We were still hugging.

So Robin was single…hmm..

         He let me go, "Hey umm I gotta go say some final goodbyes and shit, do you wanna come? No? Okay but I’m seeing you after I’m done.” He was talking fast, and his words were starting to slur. I’m probably not going to see him after.

         I watch Robin’s retreating figure and then suddenly turn to Jake. Why hadn’t he at least come up and talked to me?

(Junior Year: Jake starts going out with Yara something, some obscure art freak. And I, well I was having a really good relationship with my tennis racquet.

                             "Hi Jake,“ I smiled at him and ignored the willowy girl standing next to us.

                      "Hey,” he said easily, “This is Yara, my girlfriend. Have you guys even met?”

                              “I don’t think so,” I say, and feel a random hatred coursing through me as I touch cheeks                        with her. She seems nice; why do I hate her?

                             "Bradford and I have a long history of immisiblity,“ he laughed, and related the pig story.

                       Yara was laughing too, but all I could do is think about how we’d reverted back to a second-                        name basis.)

      I’m still sulking at the (now empty) refreshments table when I notice the graceful olive-skinned (and very well dressed) creature glide up to Jake and embrace him. Were they still together?

              I refill my cup again, and again, and again. I feel- I don’t give myself time to feel- I walk away, cup still in hand. Robin catches up to me and winks, and before I know it, I’m out of high school and in college.

I open my eyes, and shiver. That flash back was so vivid that it felt weird to be 37 again.

          I shakily do a recount, just to be safe.

I’m Crissy Bradford. I’m 37 years old, and am at my 20-year high school reunion. Jake Parker is staring at me from across the room just as he had been 20 years ago. Robin’s walking over to chat me up again. I need to get to Jake- We’re cosmic together.

            I peek out from behind my couch, somehow 37-year-old Jake is hotter than 17-year-old Jake. I need to go up and talk to him, I need that closure- to know that he’s married happily and has 3 kids named after him.

           I pull of my ridiculously high heels, glimpsing my past again, and walk up to him.

       "Parker,” I start to give him a men-hug, “it’s been too long”

              “Crissy,” he smiles in a familiar way, “I’ve been meaning to come up to you, but you just disappeared.”

          “I was hiding behind the couch,” I laughed, honesty was my thing.

He raised an eyebrow, but decided to move on, “You’ll have to tell me that when we have coffee tomorrow.”

            It was all so nonchalant that it amazed me. It could mean nothing of course, but this is Jake Parker. It’s never nothing with Jake Parker.

           The haunted look in his sparkling eyes told me that he too had just visited the past.