Two New York moods
Two New York moods
“Harmon is a writer in a tux whom we never see writing, and Sarah is a divorcée who wants to give love, buy love, solve love. Both are marching out of step with everyone else, but toward each other. It’s that brother–sister thing. A portrait of that we’re all we’ve got sibling truth. Or, as Cassavetes said to Golan, the essence of waking up and wanting to call someone.”
Mamma Anderson, Time Island, 2006
Das Zimmer von meinem Traum
Spent a good part of the evening looking at this and being on the verge of tears. Words like Abyssal Plain, they give me shudders, the way they can name, summarize, put something so vast and so unknown into something like a pencil case and zip.
(How can I truly, truly attach myself to any thing when there are places like the abyssal zone and hadopelagic zone that exist?)
Lauren Bacall (1924-2014)
This is my favorite photo of one of my absolute favorites. You’ll be missed, LB.
listening to some Tashaki Miyaki tracks by random and starting to regret not going to their gig last week. but the timing was bad anyway, and for some reason, gigs have a low priority on my list of things to pursue, and I always end up finding a reason to bail at the last minute. maybe it’s because I’ve never found going to gigs necessary for an enjoyable experience with music. I prefer music to happen like accidents; going to a gig seems to make too much of an event out of it. but I would go to classical concerts more if I can afford it because in a way, I live for the irreplaceable shudder when the instruments tune on stage; and live jazz is a vital leisure. so I guess I was referring more to rock or pop gigs—although I would love to, for once in my life, go to a collectively sappy arena show like Travis or Take That or Elton John, because I am still unreasonably moved by the the sing-along to Back for Good in the concert Prince William and Harry put on in 2007 to commemorate their mother. I was in England at the time, staying with a “muggle” family in Hereford, which at one point I had confused it with Hertfordshire—of course I would. I remember tasting a bitter, dark, and dense marmalade for the first time. I remember shopping for sandwiches at Salsbury, that universal plastic tile smell of supermarkets. I remember buying a copy of a travel magazine because that week it came with a copy of Zoe Heller’s Notes on a Scandal. if I concentrate hard enough, I can remember the feeling of stepping outside to an ambiguous, rained-out, grey chill at six or seven in the morning. and I remember it by visualizing the frontal view of the stone-walled inn. and then I laugh a little at how a few of us performed a song for the cute tour guide at the last dinner and after that we all played cards for a long time and he looked very insulted when we asked “how did you get a ring tan in England?”
Things I really appreciate my cheerleaders have said to keep me sane and feeling okay:
*”Something better will come along!”
*”If you are failing, it means you are trying. It’s cliche but it’s true!”
*”I thought of you immediately.”
*”It really comes down to being the right fit.”
*”You’re gonna have so many job offers you will be like woah I have so many job offers blahblahblahblahblah”
*”It’s nothing personal.”
VG: Yes, I do. But it came with a price. And the price, of course, was to feel separated from men. Not closer to them. Not hating them, just separated. To realize that we were all growing up with antagonistic cultures. The culture inside me was not the culture inside him, and the one inside him didn’t wish me well. We did not wish each other well. We were all instrumental to one another.
“In 1921, early suffragettes often donned a bathing suit and ate pizza in large groups to annoy men…it was a custom at the time.”
TIME TO REVIVE A CUSTOM
“Or suppose I am looking down our Boston street, in dead summer. I see a familiar life: the clapboard houses, the porches, the heat-mirage hanging over the patched road (snakes of asphalt like black chewing gum), the grey cement sidewalks (signed in one place, when the cement was new, by three young siblings), the heavy maple trees, the unkempt willow down at the end, an old white Cadillac with the bumper sticker ‘Ted Kennedy has killed more people than my gun,’ and I feel … nothing: some recognition, but no comprehension, no real connection, no past, despite all the years I have lived there – just a tugging distance from it all. A panic suddenly overtakes me, and I wonder: how did I get here? And then the moment passes, and ordinary life closes itself around what had seemed, for a moment, a desperate lack.”
—James Wood, On Not Going Home