20 years today.
Source: Spotify
“Head, Heart” by Lydia Davis
Heart weeps.
Head tries to help heart.
Head tells heart how it is, again:
You will lose the ones you love. They will all go. But even the earth will go, someday.
Heart feels better, then.
But the words of head do not remain long in the ears of heart.
Heart is so new to this.
I want them back, says heart.
Head is all heart has.
Help, head, Help heart.
Don’t mind admitting I cried a little on the bus this morning reading this.
Dans mon appartement.
Back up, buddies
The greatest train of all time just rolled out from the station again. Never stopping this comet again. Look away at your own risk.
It's a cold-as-fuck Friday here in Chicago, so let's all just try and forget about it for three-and-a-half minutes by enjoying one of the Great Pop Songs of the past ten years.
Source: Spotify
1982, Ipswich, Massachusetts. Photo by Nicholas Nixon, via.
...emotional analogies were not hard to find between this history of civilization of the one hand and the history within the CVS pharmacy on the other... For now, though, the CVS pharmacy is closer to the center of life than, say, Crate & Barrel or Pier 1, or restaurants, national parks, airports, research triangles, the lobbies of office buildings, or banks. Those places are the novel of the period, while CVS is its diary.
Nicholson Baker gettin' real about CVS in Chapter Thirteen of The Mezzanine (Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1988).
The first image he told me about was of three children on a road in Iceland, in 1965. He said that for him it was the image of happiness and also that he had tried several times to link it to other images, but it never worked. He wrote me: one day I'll have to put it all alone at the beginning of a film with a long piece of black leader; if they don't see happiness in the picture, at least they'll see the black.
- the opening words and visuals of Chris Marker's Sans Soleil, which I saw for the first time last night and which is really "something else."
I'm absolutely no fan of Greg Abbott but even I can't deny that this sounds like a pretty tyte party.
Every one is a potential eco-terrorist.
My mother, on goats.
A John Vachon photograph of a house in Houston, Texas, May 1943.
Al Hibbler's performance here is one of the weirdest jazz vocals I've ever heard. I love it.