There’s a great flood happening so the prostitutes and drug dealers have come to seek shelter in the bookstore. Meanwhile as this is all going down it’s the last Tuesday night of the month, so we are reading. You can see all the employees running throughout strategically placing buckets on the carpet floor to catch the rain that’s coming in through the roof. They respect our time, our sharing. This is a safe place.
The biggest difference between this book and the original is my emphasis on stories. The original includes some stories, but that doesn’t seem to have been a requirement for contributors. For me, though, that was by far the most fascinating part of that book.
...in which Kendall had demanded that Man Repeller help her design the most perfect set of high heel clogs, a pair of shoes with wooden platform scaffolding designed to alleviate the discomfort of an elevated ankle, and make proper aesthetic use of faux wool and suede, but which was altogether offensive for Man Repeller’s brain to even think about, more offensive than having to leave New York to work from the Kardashian home in Calabasas, and which inspired Man Repeller to pissily challenge Kendall that if she could show her a clog, any clog in the entire motherfucking universe, that didn’t make everyone want to vomit, then she would give in and design this pair of clogs that Kendall wanted so much...
The separation of dance and theater- this is a life long irritant for me! In my personal and very subjective time line, the distrust in Western theater of dance all began post-18th c. Since then, we audience(s) have been increasingly subjected to mind-numbing, un-ironic, unambiguous “reality” on stage.
If you do it right and you do it long enough, eventually something tiny and great lands in one of your shitty, embarrassing drawings. It winks at you and says hey, remember me? And then you want to cry because you finally got your pieces back, but you don’t cry because now you can draw about it instead.
I can tell you that loafing in my studio is lots more fun than clocking into an office every day. Amy, you want a serious answer? It is interesting. Critics are the only honest people left in the art world, yet they're immersed in ontological doubt -- as my kid once said to me, "you get paid for looking at art?!" Artists labor under their own kind of contradiction, in that they embody creative freedom yet are all but required to produce the same kind of thing over and over.
For me all art is contemporary art. From Cave Painting to now; it's all in play everywhere at the same time. I think that our current teleological system of art history based on progress and art is mainly measured by formal moves "forward" via techniques, tools, etc. This system is already dead; it just doesn't know it.
The core of her book is less about tidying, in my view, than the power of imaginary play: to take an object, feel it, and then decide its fate, is to become the all-powerful parent who can disregard, or even “discard" a child—(for a newer model, perhaps)—or not. Kondo's brilliance is in creating a ritual in which the “parent” who has this terrible power—and mind you, this is every parent—is imbued, via her script, with only a loving consciousness.
According to book-collector lore, the publisher objected to the original author portrait that was used, saying it was “too erotic.”
I stand my ground. Even with just over a month to do in County, I can’t come off as a bitch. I know I might get pummeled but I don’t move. There are three of us newbies so I say, “Take someone else’s mat.”
All of the onions in the world suddenly come alive and have one thought – to kill the people of Earth. Whenever an onion cuts into a person though, the smell makes them cry.
Then Carolyn—Carolyn walked somehow she didn’t know how her head was still bursting and the lights above were going by overhead like white lines on a highway hung facing down above; my God the building is all upside down.
For a long time, people believed that the mysterious apparition may have been an escaped circus or zoo animal until, one evening, the blind old wife from the village of Evil Vale shared with the others what only she could see clearly: “It’s not about only one bear, there’s a lot of them. They haven’t accidentally drifted here, they are meant to bring life back to these mountains."
I applied lipstick, and took a step back to regard myself. I might never pass for one of Millicent’s set, but I had banished the wan, harried, dowdy Ramona forever. I took a solemn oath that morning that I have, in fact, kept: as long as I lived, whenever possible, I would have my clothes made in France.
On my feed recently, someone quoted @goftyler’s tweet – “The dog’s got a butt funk and he’s been shunned from the couch” – and commented, “most grotesque tweet I’ve seen in a long time….also a poem?” Yes, according to Lerner’s definition.
I think about my own modern dressing, about the overalls my mother gave me when I was the same age as the boy in the painting. The metal hook-and-closures were easy, accessible to my tiny hands and their limited fine motor skills. I handed them down to my brother, who is three years my junior. Much of what we wore couldn’t be categorized by gender. They were garments intended for transfer.
Being a woman in any industry is tough, especially one that is typically dominated by men, like comics. Last year the Angloueme Comics Festival in France made a list of 30 "lifetime achievement" cartoonists which didn't include a single woman. On the extreme end you have to worry if the male strangers who are super-involved in your social media are stalking you, on the low end you have to hear your work compared to that show "Girls."
Stuffed birds, small cat; Ramona waits for news of Millicent’s looming trial, Lucy (Helvstead housekeeper) comes to London, and the mystery of the body in the cellar and ignominious truth of the story behind it are revealed; illegal production of cheese; the mystery of the postcard writer is discussed and remain tantalizingly insoluble; Millicent and Ramona meet.
The furry trout is the scapegoat, the victim, the source of all mysterious disappearances in Panini Shop. If a six-months aged Manchego goes missing, if a prosciutto is misplaced, if a bottle of organic cold-pressed extra-virgin olive oil discomfits, Julio tells Shanice it must have been the furry trout. It has magical powers, Shanice. Its fur can hypnotize you, Shanice. Stay away from the furry trout—cuidado señorita, el furry trout viene para comer te. And why do you think a girl wants to hear about a hairy fish? Lovely Shanice.
Humboldt was in awe of the city’s BIGness. No, its vastness. No, its peopleness. The city was a big, vast peoplefarm. Nooo, its pigeonness! The city was a big, vast pigeonfarm! New York City: the peoplepigeoncity. As Humboldt watched, the city transformed itself into a gigantic, concrete birdcage full of peoplepigeons. These strange creatures spent their days foraging for food and desirable reproductive qualities, while continually defecating on each other.
When my husband and I first reveal that we are booksellers, there are a few different responses that we may get. One of the most puzzling ones goes something like this: "It’s really too bad... "
Yet something has changed. I see love as the great leveller now.
I sleep well most nights because I’m worried most nights. Sometimes I worry about my marriage, sometimes I worry about my sickest patients, and sometimes I worry about the admittedly nebulous concept of “life.”
I'd known one other house that smelled like French vanilla coffee creamer. But this is the one that troubles me. Every house has a smell. But you can't smell your own house. You smell it, but it doesn't register. Garbage and roses and spoiled milk and curry and dirty diapers and bleach are smells in your house, but they aren't the house smell, which you don't know. If you think you know your house scent, you are mistaken.
It wasn't until the third of fourth day that I started to notice the change. No one told me that I was brave anymore. No one said I was bold. No one called me a whore, either, which was nice. In fact, no one really talked to me at all. People talked to Sam. They asked Sam where he was from and where he was going and then they smiled at me and made on their way. Now that I was traveling with a man everyone stopped making a fuss about me. It proved what I was only just beginning to grasp from my time on the road alone—a claimed woman was a safe woman.
“I’m lost,” I said. “I can’t even find the name of the road I’m on.”
Pretentiousness provides a justification for lying, which I do all the time as a doctor. I know that sounds awful, but it’s also entirely true, and not just about my doctoring but the doctoring of virtually every physician I know. If “lie” is too uncomfortable a word, then substitute “act,” as Fox does.
So much pleasure and winning of hair we’ll have, his hairpiece says while massaging its bulge, which may or may not be more hair.
With that, all the really important things all going on behind everything as he had told her, came from his eyes, and from the walls, all around them, and she saw it; lord God, he was so wise. Lord God!
Helen Macdonald mentions D.W. Winnicott in H is for Hawk, but she does not relay the pediatrician’s famous line, “It is a joy to be hidden but a disaster not to be found.” Training the goshawk is a way for her to go into isolation after her father’s death. Lisicky pores through his friend’s old emails. Alexander lies in bed, after her sons have left for school, and dreams of her husband. Eventually, they all want to be found, which is why they’ve written these books. Likewise, I suspect my patients feel the relief of being found when they unburden themselves to me in the safety of my consultation room.
In the backyard, the tree is bare and my father is still alive. The man is skeletal. His translucent skin hangs loose from his thin bones. Each of his ten fingers are crooked and bent, and he holds them in the air, above his sunken chest. He has little lung capacity left. He opens his mouth, his teeth are rotten, and he says, Help me. His voice is a whisper, and repeatedly, like a prayer, my father says, Help me.
This is an excerpt from a book about my grandmothers, Dick and Jani, both born during WWI before women could vote, but who cut very different paths through the 20th Century. Whereas Jani crashed through three violent marriages and became an activist feminist-teacher in the 1970s, Dick had wanted to be an artist but swallowed that dream in order to work in a factory to help her family during the Depression. Because of this violence Dick did to herself in order to survive, I wanted to give voice to a part of her that I believe existed - even if buried nuclear-bunker deep.
The kids are alright, and the feminist zine community is thriving, caring, full of information, funny AND has a sense of its own storied history. What's not to love?
I couldn’t picture Brighton futzing with the colored lights, laying the fir boughs gently along the planter box’s ledge. These were the doing of the wife, I supposed, like most things tedious and decorative.
The tree had never felt at home. Even as a sapling. Always on the edge of a clearing. Not in the forest. Not even in the middle of a field like some wise, powerful tree, holding its own.
“Do you wanna gulp helium with me?” asked Monkey point-blank.