TS Eliot “Hysteria”
“As she laughed I was aware of becoming involved in her laughter and being part of it, until her teeth were only accidental stars..”
Overheard:
“I know I’m a Buddhist because I am not in jail and I’ve never beat anyone up.”
News
Well here we go again, Bon Iver, the greatest, most inscrutable singer I have encountered. The words drown in the voice, but when the words emerge they are unpretentious… Something about being unable to pick up the phone. This is a collaboration.
Writing an essay for Black Clock magazine. The theme of the issue is Lost Films of the Imagination. It’s all about movies that should have been made but weren’t, or should have been seen and celebrated but were buried and/or reviled by critics. Writing about Southland Tales. Although it was mostly treated as a joke or a failure, I swear by this movie. Or I swear on it the way you Swear on a Stack of Bibles when you are a kid. I showed the first few scenes to a longtime film critic and she said, “is this even a movie?”
Reading: UBIK by Philip K Dick. Insomnia central.
Listening, (I know I am late to the game) Kanye West, Runaway. Ravishing, ravaged song. A couple of kids told me, “just listen to it.” Also collaboration with Bon Iver is brilliant on this record.
LCD Soundsystem, All My Friends (Thanks to Curtis, friend)
“To tell the truth
this could be the last time
so here we go
like a sales force into the night”
So I have been watching two great old films All The Presidents Men and Dog Day Afternoon. Both of these films rely on phones ringing as plot devices, and these are phones that ring the old fashioned way. The problem is, for my ancient cell phone I selected the “old fashioned” ring tone — sounds like a real phone, like back in the day, when Al Pacino was yelling Attica. Is that my cell or the movie? Is that the hostage negotiator or Suzanne calling about tonight?
OMG
Perhaps the next sign of artificial life will be the sound of a needle hitting a record before the download comes down.
Signs of intelligent life: Amazon ads for Kindle, full page NYT, showing the first paragraphs of a book without telling you what the book is, even in the fine print. The ad’s logic: if you don’t know this book, you should, but we are not going to tell you the name of it.
A long time ago my friend sent this to me and am just revisiting it. Amy Winehouse singing in a hotel room in a hotel chair. I was sad when I found out it was a cover. I wanted it to be about girl friendships. OK, I will just pretend it is, anyways
Recently showed this old old footage to my daughter to warn her against the violent hazards of groupie-dom. But also as something weirdly great, although clearly racist on some level i can’t even get my mind around.
I have an imitation I do about Justin Beiber groupies that sends her into hysterical laughter. I Love You So Much Even Though You Don’t Know Who I Am.
On the flipside,, she imitates the old white guys clapping at the State of the Union in such a way that I shall never be able to take it seriously again.
Everything can be projected into the amazing vapor of Julian of Wikileaks. He is a fantastic martyr for anarchists, for people who are tired of secrets, for people who are interested in irrational brands of courage — he is a star in the sense that you see a star, and then you learn about all the life around it. But did you learn about it too late? (question to self)
From The Wire, season 4, “You want it to be one way, but it is the other way.”
OK so it seems The National are supposed to sound like a combination of The Cure and New Order. But then my friends cornered me and said WHY DON’T you just listen to The Cure and New Order instead? They were right. Age of Consent hyper romantic.
Anticipated watching: Harmony Korine’s Garbage People.
Phrase I wish I could ban: “If you will.”
Rush Limbaugh on the health care bill: “This thing is going to make Watergate look like Romper Room.”
News of the writing life: novel is about to “crown” as my friend put it. So I hope the labor is short.
Anticipated listening and reading:
Shabazz Palaces
Nick Flynn’s memoir The Ticking Is The Bomb
My genius former teacher Gil Sorrentino’s The Abyss of Human Illusion
Also, I think I want to read that John Edwards scandal book, the one written by his former chum. Yes, I do think I will, just as I might watch some Surreal Housewives on Bravo.
News to me: Jackson Browne’s early stuff is genius. I always thought he was a lightweight. Acoustic/demo of Doctor My Eyes is the latest track on repeat. The way he never strays far from the eye itself as the subject of the song, moving between pleading for a doctor to give him a prescription and pleading for the ability to see beyond the angel of darkness, well… it’s the bomb. I would not want to say more than that since I can’t stop listening yet.
