Oh, right. Blog. Entries. Write. Timely. All this stuff to remember. I get so caught up in my own reading or in reading online of the various crises that sweep the web—and then there is real life, a blurry distinction if ever there was one. I feel like such a traitor to the San Francisco Chronicle, which was for so many years such a great read in the morning, a daily magazine almost; now this thin, flabby thing is thrown upon my doorstep that is so much easier to skim online. Read the rest of this entry »
Like Minds
September 17th, 2010 § 3 comments § permalink
This morning the first issue of my new subscription to the London Review of Books arrived; I have some dim memory of subscribing to the site … but this appearance of the thing in print, in the mail of all things, felt rather odd, as I’ve read the site for years. Mostly to read up every bit of Jenny Diski, a writer with whom I used to exchange links and the occasional email, but then when I read that the woman who brought her up, in her teenage years, happened to be, of all people, Doris Lessing—perhaps it was then I fell silent. Read the rest of this entry »
September 11, Loved Alone
September 11th, 2010 § 10 comments § permalink
For the error bred in the bone
Of each woman and each man
Craves what it cannot have,
Not universal love
But to be loved alone.
What striking words. I am certain they apply to 9/11. All I remember of that heart-sinking day was a call from a friend. New York, she cried, Turn on the TV! So I watched it live nearly from the start. One piece of video I wish I’d saved, now. Yes, there’s endless bits on the web. But I never found the footage I’m about to describe.
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Send Me A Letter
August 17th, 2010 § 6 comments § permalink
Come down here and be my house monk. Course you can’t do that. Kids and all. And I am so much older than I used to be. I no longer look or feel very foxy, although god knows of course that I am a good-looking woman. Some things never change. I was watching Otis Redding at Monterey Pop, a time seemed to last forever, then. I don’t think I could bear to watch it if I didn’t, in some far corner of my dreams, think it could all happen again. Or never ended. Right, and Otis is not dead. He was twenty-five at the time of those incredible recordings. Twenty-five and bursting with a talent it’s hard to account for, with soul and good looks. Good moves. What if someone like that had lived?
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Love Your Hair
August 8th, 2010 § 2 comments § permalink
My God, (oops) I hadn’t even heard of Mr. Deity until today, when I followed a link from Frank to One Good Move … and here you have it. Every Woman’s Life. In the Whole World. Okay, the Whole English-Speaking World. Guys, um, man up on the responsibility-for-self thing, ‘k? Thxbye.
{ fin }
Divine Hogwash
August 4th, 2010 § 3 comments § permalink
I believe you need to surrender the process to your Spirit, release resistance, allow yourself to come into alignment with your divine blueprint, and trust your internal wisdom to take over and inspire you to want the things that are healthy for you. via Julia.
Whom I take to be a fucking lunatic, in that way so many women are, or try to be. Taking one side of female nature to the extreme and beyond: sweetness of heart, optimism, hopefulness.
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Lady Chatterley
July 6th, 2010 § 4 comments § permalink
I’ve been watching old movies late at night, bits of which come up again and again, as I flip channels and the movies are repeated. In this way, eventually I piece together a whole. Or actually look at the listings and, quelle horror, watch the thing from beginning to end. Which is not remotely as interesting, especially if you’ve gotten good chunks of the film under your belt. Read the rest of this entry »
Late Afternoon 1967
June 26th, 2010 § 2 comments § permalink
“We are but a moment’s sunlight fading in the grass …” I was kneeling on the floor next to the big radio, weaving to the music. It was late afternoon. We had drunk perhaps foulest concoction ever, boiled dope tea, never to do so again. But the stoned-ness, ah, the stoned-ness. The extent to which one was stoned, the way in which one knew oneself to be utterly, thoroughly, completely stoned, washed over me in that special dope way, a feeling of both sinking and rising at the same time, much as a feather might float this way and that upon the air. Read the rest of this entry »
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