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Monthly Archives: March 2012

brooklyn. october 2010.

I had somehow forgotten about this song. I guess that’s why the ‘shuffle’ option on an iPod is sometimes necessary.

The news is all good
And I’m flying higher
I’m back on my own
Don’t worry about me
I got no more baggage
I threw all my old things away
I got your letter
Thanks for the offer
I really don’t need a thing
Open the door in front of me

The sun is now shining down on me
Meet me as soon as you can
Bring me the money you owe for me
I’m taking my head out of the sand

Oh, maybe I’ll go see the world
There’s plenty of places to see
Voices I never have heard
Look at the way it ought to be

Oh, I’m all alone
Oh, I’m all alone
I know you’re still listening to me
Isn’t a lot as far as I see

view from my flat on rue des gravilliers. le marais. paris. january 2010.

The first time I heard this song I was in Paris for the first time. It was my second escape from NYC and a certain fella. I’m currently on my fifth escape plan from the same fella. Either way, it was he who introduced me to this song that I had on repeat on my iPod the entire month I was Paris that January. It was perfect… it’s still quite perfect.

I’ve got an empty house,
that don’t bother me,
got an empty bottle,
so the day won’t follow me,
I write empty songs,
and the words don’t bother me,
but goddamn,
I’ve got too much time on my hands,
I’ve got too much time on my hands,
come take all this time off my hands.

I know the
inside of your eyes,
we know preparing your goodbye
each one makes me colder,
more resistant to my life,
And I saw it coming,
there was no disguise,
you were finished listening to lies
how could I have been so surprised?
how could I have been so surprised?

Sun rose,
time for us to part,
walked home,
showing me your scar,
see the knife may as well never touched your heart,
either surely would have,
needed you no more
how could  this have needed no more
how could this have needed you apart…

All I know,
I wished I had followed you home,
I wished I had followed you home,

I’ve got an empty house,
that don’t bother me,
got an empty bottle,
so the day won’t follow me,
I write empty songs,
and the words don’t bother me,
but goddamn,
I’ve got too much time on my hands,
I’ve got too much time on my hands…

jardin des tuileries. paris. march 2012.

Today Adrienne Rich died. She was a brilliant poet who transformed language and put into words the reality of our feelings.

Twenty One Love Poems, XVII

No one’s fated or doomed to love anyone.
The accidents happen, we’re not heroines,
they happen in our lives like car crashes,
books that change us, neighborhoods
we move into and come to love.
Tristan und Isolde is scarcely the story,
women at least should know the difference
between love and death. No poison cup,
no penance. Merely a notion that the tape-recorder
should have caught some ghost of us: that tape-recorder
not merely played but should have listened to us,
and could instruct those after us:
this we were, this is how we tried to love,
and these are the forces they had ranged against us,
and theses are the forces we had ranged within us,
within us and against us, against us and within us.

port de barcelona. 19 march 2012.

Like a moth to a fucking flame, when I read that Arab Strap’s Malcolm Middleton is releasing a new album next month under the moniker Human Don’t Be Angry, I went into obsessive Arab Strap mode. This song from Philophobia, as well as “Amor Veneris” from The Red Thread, have been on repeat for the past few days. Sometimes there’s no such thing as too much.

Sit by me silently and brush my beard. No mess to mop up from the bed today. Will we sit next door and watch the soaps? We’ve nothing to do and we’ve nothing to say. Oh, when you go… Recently, we’ve been somewhat volatile and last night it starts with that Joan Osborne song. I hate it anyway, but you made it worse.
I know why you laughed and you should know you were wrong. Oh, when you go… Bird number one taught me I shouldn’t trust, that’s why I find unfounded doubts abound. But number two proved that with none, we’ve nothing. And now I’m only happy when you’re not around. Oh, when you go…

love padlocks on the pont de l'archevêché. 27 march 2012.

The first time I heard “Lover’s Spit,” by Broken Social Scene was during an episode of Queer as Folk. When the episode ended, I scoured the internet for the name of the song. It was when I finally located it that I listened to it on repeat for weeks.

To this day, I still listen to it on repeat for hours at a time when the mood strikes. In my humble opinion, it’s one of the most beautiful songs ever written. It’s also the version with Feist on the lead vocals that breaks my heart every time.

All these people drinking lover’s spit
They sit around and clean their face with it
And they listen to teeth to learn how to quit
tied to a night they never met

You know it’s time
that we grow old and do some shit
I like it all that way

All these people drinking lover’s spit
Swallowing words while giving head
They listen to teeth to learn how to quit
tied to a night they never met

You know it’s time
that we grow old and do some shit
I like it all that way

my hubbell. 2011.

The only movie I brought with me to Paris is Beginners. Although I had seen it easily a dozen times before I left, including once in the theatre, I decided to bring it with me — for nostalgic reasons, of course.

But honestly, I can’t get enough of it:

Hal: Well, let’s say that since you were little, you always dreamed of getting a lion. And you wait, and you wait, and you wait, and you wait but the lion doesn’t come. And along comes a giraffe. You can be alone, or you can be with the giraffe.

Oliver: I’d wait for the lion.

Hal: That’s why I worry about you.

Beginners theme suite:

notre dame. paris. march 2012.

Sometimes I feel as a woman I’m going against my gender because of my deep love for Hemingway. The majority of my female friends “loathe” him on something called “principle.” I’m not one for principles. I am one for hard-drinking, womanizing, impeccably talented yet tortured souls. That’s my cup of tea and I’m sticking to it.

But it’s A Moveable Feast, the book I carried with me until it was torn and tattered my first time in Paris, that is my favorite of all of Hemingway’s works. It is perfect.

“If the reader prefers, this book may be regarded as fiction. But there is always the chance that such a book of fiction may throw some light on what has been written as fact.” – Hemingway, A Moveable Feast

"...such was the Paris of our youth, the time when we were very poor and very happy."