This poem in The New Yorker made me think of dark, delicious things:
Rituals
Washing your hands, trying the lock,
burning a hundred head of cattle
not to eat, washing your hands
again, trying the lock again,
talking forever to yourself,
saying the sorts of things the god
least can understand, who finally
figures this must be for me.
— Jeff Dolven
On a related note, there are 4 ads in this week’s TNY for fancy psych hospitals. Glad to see they’re keeping the percentage up.
This goes against everything I believe in BUT:
Luke Perry. At DragonCon. With a guy in a Labyrinth t-shirt.
Lena Dunham (@lenadunham) said: I’m getting pret-ty worried about how we’re gonna organize the gmails of great thinkers & publish volumes of correspondence. Who’s on this?
Itinerant Daughter says: I am. Don’t you worry one bit.
—
If perhaps you get this, though, I’m sorry to say I can’t watch your new show, as I am incapable of watching anything other than re-runs of Intervention and Law and Order SVU that I’ve already seen eighteen times. My psyche is on a permanent Aristotelian carthasis-by-tragedy loop.
... perhaps would be alleviated if I were sleeping here.
While editing Shmuley Boteach’s book, I came across this:
“An idea which might also have such unintended potential was proposed by Nobel laureate Francis Crick, who suggested that it may be necessary to redefine the concepts of ‘birth’ and ‘death.’ He suggested that the time of birth of an infant be redefined as two days after parturition so that there would be time to examine it. Crick has also proposed redefining death as occurring when a pre-determined age were achieved. At that time the person’s property would pass on to his heirs.”
This is… interesting. I will research further and get back to y’all.
These tights are adorable:
I always feel like a twat when trying to pronounce "ombre" though.
But one, it’s springtime, and so no new tights necessary for a good few months now, and two, they’re FORTY-FIVE FUCKING DOLLARS! (It actually says “fucking” on the Etsy shop entry.) Seriously, for $45, I could feed myself for a week, and buy a cheap pair of tights at H&M and dip them in crushed berries myself.
Luckily, when I win the $600 gajillion megamillions powerball whatever tonight, I’ll be able to buy myself the woman who owns this Etsy shop and set her up in my laundry room, where she will dye tights in the morning, make funky candles in the afternoon, and sleep at night. Hey, I’m not a slavedriver.
My day has started out on a few bad notes, but when I saw this headline in the Times:
“Starbucks struggles to make headway in Europe”
(To be more accurate, in Business Day Live)
I was momentarily revived. It’s nice to know even those who seem so together have their problems. Like finding out the popular girl in middle school had a wicked case of psoriasis that (fortunately for her) was covered by her polos.
Famed poet Adrienne Rich died Tuesday. I wanted to post “Valediction Forbidding Mourning” (seemed apropos) but it had been removed from all the usual sites due to complaints from the copyright holder. Fair ’nuff.
Song
You’re wondering if I’m lonely:
OK then, yes, I’m lonely
as a plane rides lonely and level
on its radio beam, aiming
across the Rockies
for the blue-strung aisles
of an airfield on the ocean.
You want to ask, am I lonely?
Well, of course, lonely
as a woman driving across country
day after day, leaving behind
mile after mile
little towns she might have stopped
and lived and died in, lonely
If I’m lonely
it must be the loneliness
of waking first, of breathing
dawns’ first cold breath on the city
of being the one awake
in a house wrapped in sleep
If I’m lonely
it’s with the rowboat ice-fast on the shore
in the last red light of the year
that knows what it is, that knows it’s neither
ice nor mud nor winter light
but wood, with a gift for burning
Exactly how ought one to open an email to Marina Abramovic?
Gimme something useful, like an A!
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