Photographed by the lovely Johanna Tagada
So often I have the words, but lack the time.
So often I have the time, but lack the words.
So often I have the strength, but lack the will.
So often I have the will, but lack the strength.
Words. Time. Strength. Will.
You need all four to write.
Like clock hands, they might align predictably, but rarely.
Like dice rolls, they might align often, but unpredictably.
Like connecting trains, they might align both often and predictably.
Like weather phenomena, they might align both rarely and unpredictably.
It doesn’t matter.
When you can, you write.
Write slow and sweet, like a lingering kiss.
Write bitter and fast, like a burning house.
Write bitter and slow, like a killing frost.
Write fast and sweet, like a shooting star.
Write with what’s in you.
Write with what isn’t.
Write like your words can mend the unmendable.
Write like your words can break the unbreakable.
Write like your words can build the unbuildable.
Write like your words can destroy the indestructible -
and one day, maybe,
Words are bombs, my darlings.
They explode our hearts
and whether they do it with fireworks or shrapnel
is up to you.
I accidentally let it slip that I think of people that liked the movie Gravity as the ones that fucked “the dumb girl.” I feel the movie pays lip service to science. So my issue is this; everyone at work hates me. Is there some weird trick for blending in with the herd without feeling oppressed? I’ve had this problem before in religious environments.
Yeah, I haven’t seen Gravity, but I have had a similar history of frustration when it comes to Sandra Bullock movies.
Still, I just blog about my opinions. I don’t go around acting like an arrogant jerk to people’s faces over something as trivial as a popcorn flick. There’s a time and a place to be a cunt, and it ain’t during water cooler talk at the office.
People hate you because you’re a dick. You refer to your co-workers as “the herd,” and you believe you’re special just because you have a different world view. Well, guess what? You work there too, numnuts.
You wanna know the weird trick for blending in? Simple. It’s called being kind to people. You could instantly and dramatically improve the quality of your life if you would stop walking around with a chip on your shoulder.
You’re not oppressed. You’re just an asshole. Get used to the world being full of people with different opinions.
or, how I felt about the Yeezus tour, and my obituary of Paul Walker.
I finagled some Kanye West tickets last night, because the concert was the same place as where the hockey team plays, and my dad is obsessed with the hockey team. I dragged along a cohort. The concert was interminably long. I really like Kanye West? I have no beef with him. But he’s certainly not the best singer in the entire planet or anything. Almost everything he sang was auto-tuned, which was a frustrating amateur note against what was otherwise a rather sophisticated performance.
It was an unexpectedly sad concert, too. Strongly about yearning and loss, not the cocky triumphalism that marks Kanye’s earlier work. He’s statement-making, and it really hit me. Which is funny, because I don’t think I like his music very much. I like the crowd-pleasing hits, the ones tailored to be dance songs. But he’s mostly left that behind for more meandering stuff. He can afford to be more purely an artist now. I’m fine with it.
I was thinking too about how Kanye West is polarizing in the same way Lena Dunham is. A lot of ego, focused at times on a legitimate structure of oppression, and other times focused just on narcissism. Discount other people’s art at your peril.
Another question raised: Does God like hip-hop?
Then at some point because I was fidgeting with my phone I discovered that Paul Walker had died. I leaned back in my chair and watched Kanye and his cast act out his death to the “Dies Irae,” in particular to a mixed version of Mozart’s requiem. Kanye covered his face until the end, wearing a hood/mask thing. There appeared to be two—one black, one beige. Both had sequins. Just the day before I had asked Jack: What is the Dies Irae? Because it’s always a clue in crosswords. (Jack always knows the answers to questions like this.) He said it’s part of the catholic requiem mass. And it means, the wrathful god.
then later Kanye asked: If you loved me so much, why did you let me go? And a woman with very long hair—wavy, crimped brown hair that trailed on the floor—walked out to the stage, a triangle with the point jutting out into the audience. She stood there for a while, looking back at where Kanye had disappeared to, where she had come from, and then walked back. It occurred to me that she looked like Kim Kardashian.
I was texting Pilot to tell her that Paul Walker had died when the audience yelled along with Kanye, “Hurry up with my damn croissants!” A bloom of fire over the base of the triangle-stage, just as I blinked. I could see the glare of light over my eyelids, and the after-image of smoke and sparks. I stared at it, wanting to see it when it lit up again. It did, but it was so bright I closed my eyes involuntarily. Only the smoke, both times. Plato’s special effects.
Right before the concert, a woman took the seat I’d saved for Jack. She was a hefty lady, filling the whole seat with imposing size, single-mindedly scrolling through her Facebook feed on her android phone. She had come in late, with two kids, and during the break between the opening act and Kanye she took the seats we’d marked with cups and jackets, right in front of us. We were eating hot dogs. I came back and told her I’d saved the seat; she said, oh, okay. I thought she’d decided to move. I came back again, this time with my cohort in tow, and said, with what must have been a very stupid-looking smile on our face: “Hey, can we have the seat back now?”
She looked up from her phone. All the other seats in the section were taken. (The tickets were for the section, not for an individual seat.) She said: Well, I can tell you right now, I’m not getting up until there’s another seat for me. I have a ticket for a seat, so I’m getting a seat.
This would never have happened during a hockey game, when the mix of season-ticket holders get to know each other and their families over the course of the year. You can’t burn a bridge with people you’re going to see every week, unless you’re dumb. But the overlap between Kanye West fans and hockey fans is quite small. Everyone in the section had traded their tickets away to family, friends, coworkers, employees. It was the least white audience I’d ever seen at the stadium. We didn’t know her. She didn’t know us. And she did not give a fuck about our feelings, or the sacred playground rule of “firsties.” Sitting there, after she said that so callously, with several people around us watching the encounter, with a forced cheeriness fading from my face, I realized that the experience was going to cloud the whole concert, and I felt sorry for myself. Later, sitting in another seat, farther back, I felt sorry for her, for being unable to be kind. Pity is the last recourse of the morally superior. But the people sitting behind us offered up their seats to us, disappointed in her behavior; my sister and cousin graciously declined, and had me sit in their seats—which I did, with my face burning with something like shame.
I have a tendency to spit back in people’s faces when my ego is threatened—to lose my shit, to throw down, to fight tooth and nail for some scrap of perceived dignity when it feels under attack. I didn’t this time. So maybe I’m growing up. A phrase from Taryn rattled through my brain, said about some of my angrier commenters: “What is their damage?” What is her damage, I thought? What could happen to a person that something like this would be so difficult? And what was mine, that the loss of a seat, and a few rude words, could cut so deep?
Later, Kanye told us the world was made up of two types of people: dreamers, and haters. And he told the haters they could go fuck themselves. I thought about the woman. She might have thought about me. Her son, also scrolling through Facebook, showed her a picture of Paul Walker. This guy, he’s the one that died. I could see their phones the whole time. We had a better view in our seats, as it turned out—the couple in front of her stood up when Kanye came out, so she couldn’t see for a while. That bitch got what was coming, I thought to myself, rather meanly. Her daughter kept looking back at me. She must have been around 10.
If I get something out of the concert, and she gets something out of the concert, and a thousand thousand people in the pit get something out of the concert, and millions of people I’ve never met get something out of the concert, does what I feel really matter? I kept scrolling through Twitter but I couldn’t think of anything to say. About Paul Walker or about Kanye West. So I didn’t say much of anything. It all felt rather meaningless for a while there. Jack left because he had to respond to a work email and wasn’t much enjoying himself. And before Tanya came to sit down I was there alone for a while, wondering about what was going to happen to the seventh Fast And Furious movie.
Toward the end, Kanye asked everyone to turn on their lights—to shine their phones out, in the darkened amphitheatre. Thousands of phones, sparkling in the pit, in the stands, in our section. Hers, too. Mine, too.
Sometimes I get up early and even my soul is wet.
Far away the sea sounds and resounds.
This is a port.
Here I love you.
Here I love you and the horizon hides you in vain.
Pablo Neruda, from “Here I Love You” (via oofpoetry)
POCKETS FOR SNACKS
i don’t so much want to get married as i want to try on a million gajillion wedding dresses because some of those things are really gorgeous
#why yes I’m watching say yes to the dress again
this post is my whole life basically
This is my favorite Rogue scene!
I only saw the movies, kid. I’m not a true believer. But Rogue means a lot to me. I don’t know if I’m anything like her. But the tragedy of her character, and the terrible power. The number one reason I hate X-Men III is what I did to her, even though I get it, too.
Sense and Sensibility, 1995.
The little moments in between all their bickering where they share a bit of muffled laughter or repressed insight. Alone in the world, they are on the same team. They have to be.
I miss my sister. This movie always makes me think of her. We have seen it together a hundred times. I am Elinor and she is Marianne. (She will not like me saying that.)