Nancy Sinatra and Mia Farrow
"I see myself and my life each day differently. What can I say? The facts lie. I have been Don Quixote, always creating a world of my own. I am all the women in the novels, yet still another not in the novels. It took me more than sixty diary volumes until now to tell about my life. Like Oscar Wilde I put only my art into my work and my genius into my life. My life is not possible to tell. I change every day, change my patterns, my concepts, my interpretations. I am a series of moods and sensations. I play a thousand roles. I weep when I find others play them for me. My real self is unknown. My work is merely an essence of this vast and deep adventure. I create a myth and a legend, a lie, a fairy tale, a magical world, and one that collapses every day and makes me feel like going the way of Virginia Woolf. I have tried to be not neurotic, not romantic, not destructive, but may be all of these in disguises.
It is impossible to make my portrait because of my mobility. I am not photogenic because of my mobility. Peace, serenity, and integration are unknown to me. My familiar climate is anxiety. I write as I breathe, naturally, flowingly, spontaneously, out of an overflow, not as a substitute for life. I am more interested in human beings than in writing, more interested in lovemaking than in writing, more interested in living than in writing. More interested in becoming a work of art than in creating one. I am more interesting than what I write. I am gifted in relationship above all things. I have no confidence in myself and great confidence in others. I need love more than food. I stumble and make errors, and often want to die. When I look most transparent is probably when I have just come out of the fire. I walk into the fire always, and come out more alive. All of which is not for Harper’s Bazaar.
I think life tragic, not comic, because I have no detachment. I have been guilty of idealization, guilty of everything except detachment. I am guilty of fabricating a world in which I can live and invite others to live in, but outside of that I cannot breathe. I am guilty of too serious, too grave living, but never of shallow living. I have lived in the depths. My first tragedy sent me to the bottom of the sea; I live in a submarine, and hardly ever come to the surface. I love costumes, the foam of aesthetics, noblesse oblige, and poetic writers. At fifteen I wanted to be Joan of Arc, and later, Don Quixote. I never awakened from my familiarity with mirages, and I will end probably in an opium den. None of that is suitable for Harper’s Bazaar.
I am apparently gentle, unstable, and full of pretenses. I will die a poet killed by the nonpoets, will renounce no dream, resign myself to no ugliness, accept nothing of the world but the one I made myself. I wrote, lived, loved like Don Quixote, and on the day of my death I will say: ‘Excuse me, it was all a dream,’ and by that time I may have found one who will say: ‘Not at all, it was true, absolutely true.’”
—Anaïs Nin declining to be profiled in Harper’s Bazaar, from her diaries
I don’t have the technical vocabulary to pin-point the details, but Ballet School’s debut album The Dew Lasts an Hour is a pretty neat intersection and summary of music I’ve grown to love in the past two to three years. It came out with perfect timing, like how these first crisip, cool days is wrapping up summer.
— (via cutely-perverted)
Joe has cheap coffee but there is neither wifi nor seating to work.
Whynot has nice seats and wifi but the coffee is so-so.
Jack’s has good coffee and nice seats but neither outlet nor wifi.
I don’t feel like venturing to Stumptown because Whynot does sit on a breezy spot that faces an invigorating but non-distracting amount of street action.
In New York, real estate wins.
’”At the time, neither Acker nor Wark saw their exchange as a potential book, or even a project, but the correspondence nevertheless unfolds as a narrative, climaxed by misunderstandings. For someone who’s slept with his addressee less than a week ago, Wark talks too much about his current and former lovers, particularly since she, at the time, had no other partners. Still, they’d made no promises to each other. Acker treads on dangerous ground, drawing him out about his other partners, only to be offended later, when he foolishly catalogs them. “First,” she writes, “you’re worried about having babies with one girl and another lover is coming out of the fistfucking closet and there’s also an old boyfriend and then, of course, desire. Lord, honey, can you have babies and keep all this going?” In some ways, Acker and Wark’s correspondence amounts to a cautionary tale against casual sex, but, in a larger sense, they’re trying to forge a brave friendship that includes sexual and intellectual intimacy aided by total disclosure. Comfort matters less to them than knowledge.
Later, he concedes: “I think the problem was me talking about various emotional ties I have with certain people in the *absence* of talking about my emotional ties to you. I was deferring something until I found the words… but one never finds the words.”’
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?)