When I went over to Casey’s house she had made soup for me and I almost cried because of it. She couldn’t have known that it was exactly the gesture that I needed at that moment, but somehow she did. She was just delighting in being able to share with me. Food people are like that, I’ve found. They are mostly prompted to do what they do out of care.
While I was in Las Vegas last weekend I picked up a copy of Anne Carson’s first collection of poetry, Short Talks. The Brick Books edition has an introduction by Margaret Christakos, who clearly understands the breadth of Carson’s work. Christakos points out to the reader the themes of winter landscapes in Short Talks, the use of reflection and light as tropes and what those might have to do with snow and ice and growing up in Ontario, as Carson did. Continue reading
I’ve been misremembering that Simone de Beauvoir quote this whole time. Like, I’ve been using it in arguments, and it’s just straight up not something she said. I feel like an idiot. Continue reading
Tomboy, the suit shop around the corner from where I work, has closed. It makes me sad – not that I shopped there, or could ever afford to shop there – but I liked to look in the window. There was a pair of $500 wingtip boots there that I liked to check in on every once in a while. Continue reading
I was there, where you didn’t notice me, a ghost in the gallery you built so crowded and uncurated that the eye grew dizzy from wandering. I was at your knee with Hemingway, listening to you tear apart and paste … Continue reading