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silver soul。
25 11 14(no subject)
i was looking through my drafts and i am so very glad i found this account in which i describe the most singularly, wonderfully, impossibly perfect moment i have ever experienced. where's a pensieve when you need one? i wrote this after seeing andrew bird at echo beach a couple summers back.

Andrew comes on during golden hour. At some point early in the set, during a lull between songs, I sigh and stretch my neck upwards to catch a breeze that unrolls off the lake nearby. Looking up, my attention is taken by the sky: awash with the oranges and pinks and purples and blues of a sunset, dotted with the very faintest traces of stars at its darkest edges, like scattered grains of sugar or salt.

Andrew says something before easing into the next song. The notes flicker alive, dispersing through the wind and sand, curling in and around and through the crowd in osmosis, until it becomes impossible to imagine that music and human energy could ever be two different things that exist independently of one another. I am struck with a feeling of peaceful awe.

It was a perfect moment.
It was a perfect night.
03 12 13(no subject)
through the flaming doors.
i can't stop thinking about this poem by frank o'hara:

Having a Coke with You
is even more fun than going to San Sebastian, Irún, Hendaye, Biarritz, Bayonne
or being sick to my stomach on the Travesera de Gracia in Barcelona
partly because in your orange shirt you look like a better happier St. Sebastian
partly because of my love for you, partly because of your love for yoghurt
partly because of the fluorescent orange tulips around the birches
partly because of the secrecy our smiles take on before people and statuary
it is hard to believe when I’m with you that there can be anything as still
as solemn as unpleasantly definitive as statuary when right in front of it
in the warm New York 4 o’clock light we are drifting back and forth
between each other like a tree breathing through its spectacles

and the portrait show seems to have no faces in it at all, just paint
you suddenly wonder why in the world anyone ever did them

I look
at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world

except possibly for the Polish Rider occasionally and anyway it’s in the Frick
which thank heavens you haven’t gone to yet so we can go together the first time
and the fact that you move so beautifully more or less takes care of Futurism
just as at home I never think of the Nude Descending a Staircase or
at a rehearsal a single drawing of Leonardo or Michelangelo that used to wow me
and what good does all the research of the Impressionists do them
when they never got the right person to stand near the tree when the sun sank

or for that matter Marino Marini when he didn’t pick the rider as carefully
as the horse

it seems they were all cheated of some marvelous experience
which is not going to go wasted on me which is why I am telling you about it
05 10 13(no subject)
through the flaming doors.
i remember reading somewhere that instead of being an innocent, virgin-snow love anthem, I Want to Hold Your Hand is actually some kind of thinly-veiled euphemism for Sex Things, or that it is a way of saying "i want to do more than just hold yr hand if ya catch my drift ohohoho"

but in my case it's like

all i really want(ed) to do is (was) to hold your hand
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