Frederick Sandys, Mary Magdalene, 1858-60
an eyeroll-inducing album of my current jeans
It’s true I never write, but I would gladly die with you.
Gladly lower myself down alone with you into the enormous mouth
that waits, beyond youth, beyond every instance of ecstasy,
Before battle we would do each other’s makeup, comb each other’s
saying we are invincible, we are terrible and splendid—
the mouth waiting, patiently waiting. And I would meet you there
beyond bleeding thorns, the endless dilation, the fire that alters nothing;
I am there already past snowy clouds, balding moss, dim
swarm of stars even we can step over, it is easier this time, I
I am already waiting in your personal Heaven, here is my hand,
I will help you across. I’d gladly die with you
right now, although I cannot
seem to write
from this gray institution. See
we are so busy trying to cure me;
and I’m condemned—sorry, I have been given the job
of vacuuming the desert forever, well, no less than eight hours
And it’s really just about a thousand miles of cafeteria;
a large one in any event. With its miniature plastic knives,
its tuna salad and saran-wrapped genitalia will somebody
get me out of here, sorry. I am happy to say that
every method, massive pharmaceuticals, art therapy
and edifying films as well as others I would prefer
not to mention—I mean, every single technique
known to mouth—sorry!—to our most kindly
compassionate science is being employed
to restore me to normal well-being
and cheerful stability. I go on vacuuming,
toward a small diamond light burning
off in the distance. Remember
me. Do you
In the night’s windowless darkness
when I am lying cold and numb
and no one’s fiddling with the lock, or
shining flashlights in my eyes,
although I never write, deep down
I long to die with you,
does that count?
"You Can't Put Your Arms Around A Memory"
Ramblin’ Jack Elliot - “Old Shep”
A few days ago was the anniversary of my uncle’s death. Here is a pared-down version of a playlist I made the night he died.
some excerpts from Anne Carson’s book ”Nox,” a facsimile of a handmade book Carson put together as an epitaph for her brother upon his death.
— Leonard Cohen
Christmas Eve 1975 at Guy and Susanna’s. Clip from Heartworn Highways.
side note: you can see Susanna’s painting of a denim shirt—which Guy poses next to on the cover of his album Old No. 1—behind Guy in this clip.
Jonathan Richman - “That Summer Feeling”