two things

These artist studios on Fogo Island, off the coast of Newfoundland.

This essay, about greatness, and the Pulitzer mishap of 2012.

mirror

MICHELANGELO PISTOLETTO, LÂETRUSCO (1973–1976) 

(FROM: H. FRIEDEL, ED., DER TRAUM DES ORPHEUS, [1984] 24). 

Here. 

Thinking about what we see today. What we choose to see, what we choose not to. Willful blindness. People who may not ever stop to look themselves in the face, direct hit, more than cursory, inside.

random act of bravery

two things

This song, on repeat, since Glen Hansard did it at his epic jam session last week at Le Poisson Rouge. He had a tiny mandolin and a tumbler of whiskey. He also had every heart in that room for every minute of those three hours.

The space and quiet that idleness provides is a necessary condition for standing back from life and seeing it whole, for making unexpected connections and waiting for the wild summer lightning strikes of inspiration — it is, paradoxically, necessary to getting any work done. 

This article, and the mystical South of France residency where everyone loves each other and you get a boyfriend just for showing up.

let's all be happy together

here

further proof

You know those beautiful posts all those beautiful style bloggers are always doing - the "in my purse" ones? Where next to their Marc Jacobs tote or whatever they have a dainty grid of NARS lipsticks, antique coin purses, and rolls of Japanese tape?

Would you like to know what is in my purse (a 4-year-old Brooklyn Industries feather tote with a peeling plastic overcoat that I pick at when anxious) right now?

- my wallet (Target)
- two notebooks
- Filofax agenda
- five pairs of (clean, thankfully) underwear
- sweaty sports bra and t-shirt
- dirty Tupperware
- orange sandals
- Disgrace
- tiny Fresh lip balm (free gift from Sephora)
- deodorant
- two Rumpus Letters in the Mail 
- umbrella
- half-eaten bag of mango licorice
- one band aid

FIVE PAIRS of underwear. FIVE PAIRS.

the consummate smart cookie

The other list, of the things she will miss, begins with “my kids” and “Nick” and ends this way: 

 “Taking a bath 

Coming over the bridge to Manhattan

 Pie.”

surrounded by nothing / but the nothing's surrounded by us

On the flight back to the city from Vancouver, waterlogged with fatigue, smudge-eyed, limbs folded and aching, I listened to Youth Lagoon's "Year of Hibernation" about 12 times. It's not really music for airplanes - more for summer nights in Brooklyn - but it was the only thing that lowered my heart rate to a manageable beat.

I was at this concert last year, drunk. I remember feeling like I was on fire, each cell of my body being plucked and strummed, as though lightning was being loosed down my spine. Does that sound ridiculous? You'll know it if you've felt it. It was the music, the company. It was the whiskey and the way the anxiety I'd been battling all fall was finally lifting.

I have a lot more I want to say about that. I have a lot more I want to say about everything, lately, but I'm feeling stuck. I think I've been talking/writing around it: I'm unhappy. Not all the time, not chronically or inescapably, not dangerously, just - unhappy. I'm going to try a few things. First a haircut. Maybe a few late nights out in the open, with fireflies, if I can arrange it. I want the summer to come - to really come. I want to be wet and ready, because I want something to happen. I want to make something happen.

two things

‎"It’s a summer day, / and I want to be wanted more than anything else in the world." 


- Frank O'Hara. 

here. 

treat yo' self

Indulgent lunch: New Game of Thrones for an impromptu trip home; NARS lipstick in Heat Wave. You deserve it.