Is it just me or do my challah strands have a bit of a Louise Bourgeois flaccid penis thing going on?
Archive for the ‘The sun has gone to bed.’ Category
Gut Shabbos!
January 15, 2016Dear Julia
November 16, 2015I think I might have seen you before, but we only really met on Friday night. Your mom was visiting, and you two got gently bullied into staying for shabbat dinner at the house where my husband and I were dining. I disliked you for a second for being stereotypically French––tall, cool, casually beautiful––and perhaps you disliked me, too, for being any number of negative things I am. My opinion changed quickly, as it became clear you are very sweet. We played with the host’s kids, ate some really tender beef and chatted about the differences between Brits, Americans, and French people. You said in France, there is no such thing as casual dating; we told you in America, all dating is casual. You made a joke about being French and not drinking, and how all the golden boys at the financial institution where you work were always getting plastered; we took shots of vodka. We were in that lovely shabbat bubble in which no one checks his or her phone, so we had no idea that back in your city, chaos was ensuing. It probably started right as we finished singing grace after meals. The next morning, when we learned what happened, I felt instantly sad that I didn’t know how to reach you. I wanted to say I was so sorry, that I hoped everyone you loved was safe, that I wanted to help if you needed it. But I don’t even know your last name. I used to think it was gross to invoke the name of a tragedy that isn’t yours afterward, that it was more about bringing yourself closer to the blue heat of the flame than comforting anyone else. Finding the most distant of acquaintances and checking up on them, re-tweeting pictures of the victims in memoriam, crying for the dead you don’t know. Now I am older and kinder, and I know that people are good, really, and they just have to do something when their hearts are broken, even if that something seems like not so much at all.
Sound Advice
June 21, 2015JE: You have the rest of your life to eat nicoise salad
Sweet Goodbyes
February 6, 2015ID: wittgenstein’s brother:
Two years later, aged 22 and studying chemistry at the Berlin Academy, the third eldest brother, Rudi, committed suicide in a Berlin bar. He had asked the pianist to play Thomas Koschat’s “Verlassen, verlassen, verlassen bin ich” (“Forsaken, forsaken, forsaken am I”),[45] before mixing himself a drink of milk and potassium cyanide. He had left several suicide notes, one to his parents that said he was grieving over the death of a friend, and another that referred to his “perverted disposition”. It was reported at the time that he had sought advice from the Scientific-Humanitarian Committee, an organization that was campaigning against Paragraph 175 of the German Criminal Code, which prohibited homosexual sex. His father forbade the family from ever mentioning his name again.[46]
HW: potassium cyanide and milk
that’s no way to go
chocolate syrup, at least
Gloomy Sunday
January 18, 2015ID: yeah it’s very unpleasant out!
MB: thats why i have not a single plan to go outside
tho i do want to get a mani at some point
ID: i kinda want a diet coke
but that’s it on my end
MB: perhaps when i get cabin fever in a bit
and/or if it stops raining
ID: also when i was sleeping
i had a dream about sour cream and onion potato chips so now i kind of want some
these are the only reasons i’d leave
MB: oh interesting, so vivid and specific
i wish i dreamed about food more
Interesting
January 9, 2015I woke up in my sleep last night because in my dream, I got shot in the foot. I was driving through Baltimore at the time. Shoulda known better!
Embarrassed
October 1, 2014I’m embarrassed because I feel as if every post I write begins with an apology for being out of touch. The truth is that the past few days, it’s been mighty difficult to peel myself out of bed. If only I were Gogo Schiaparelli, the daughter of Elsa and the future mother of Marisa Berenson (did you know it’s pronounced Mar-ee-za?) Particularly the last part:
“After leaving Abbot’s Hill, she went to school in Paris, spent a winter in Munich, and took cooking lessons from a Russian chef. In London she lived in her mother’s home with a chaperone, went on holidays to Morocco or Rome with her mother, and then might spend a few weeks visiting Diasy Fellowes’s villa at Cap Martin and from there head to Monte Carlo. She traveled with her own pink silk sheets.”
Oh, and did I mention that I’m getting married?
Casting for Biopics of Poets
September 9, 2014So, Robert Lowell in the biopic Locked Razors (too morbid? Title open to discussion) will be played by…
Kinda dreamy, no? In a bad boy sort of way.
… MICHAEL SHANNON!
Grows out his hair a little, and bingo bango.
My boyfriend and I, just apropos of the above, happened to see Michael Shannon recently, looking quite disheveled and walking the streets of Brooklyn muttering to himself. This segues nicely into the following scary tidbit: I see Philip Seymour Hoffman all the time. Mostly in subway stations, but on a super regular basis. A pallid face zooms by me, and I turn around to catch a glimpse of a strawberry blond head, and I think, “Hey, that’s Philip Seymour Hoffman!” But… isn’t he dead? you’re thinking. Yes, he is. Hence the “scary.”
Insomniac Debates
August 19, 2014Resolved: What About Bob is the best cinematic depiction of psychotherapy ever made. Prince of Tides is the worst.
Gentlemen, start your engines.
A Recipe for Insomnia
May 14, 2014Thinking about––The theme from “Le Locataire,” by Philippe Sarde, Chopin’s Ballade 1, Three Women, Anne Sexton, Agnes Richter, handwritten notes, unpaid bills, unwritten notes, freshly baked biscuits
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