Monthly Archives: October 2012

mercat de sant josep de la boqueria. barcelona. april 2012.

It was the night we raced through the Louvre. We wanted to beat the record, but we didn’t come close. It was more than a metaphor. It never happened. It never will. We didn’t know Paris together. I knew Paris alone; you didn’t know it at all. We knew New York City, but so do so many others. We are not special.

It was a February when we gave up the fight. Actually, that’s being dramatic. It was a fight that never existed, at least not on your end. I fought. But I only know how to fight. Kicking and screaming I came into this world; kicking and screaming has been my affliction ever since. It’s not pretty. It’s not glamorous. It just is… and you just happened to fall in the midst of my parade to the end.

I met you in a karaoke room on leap year, and that’s where I left you four years later. One could not have asked for a more poetic beginning and ending.

“You guys existed in a vacuum, a hole,” explained my friend Natalie, “It didn’t count. It was four years of vapid space.”

“That doesn’t make sense… I feel like you’re contradicting yourself.”

“But you know what I mean…”

“I do?”

“You do. Basically, it does count.”

Based on that, this is a series of stories that don’t count.

Yes, these stories to come don’t count… but at least I learned to love sushi.

“Favourite Food” by Tokyo Police Club:

chrysler building. nyc. 22 october 2012.

That awkward moment when you realize that all the songs you introduced to someone are now being introduced to someone new without your permission. There should be some sort of permission clause about these types of things; or at least one would think/hope so.

don’t use the records I played you,
to seduce or reduce what remains
you know as well as i do,
they only will remind you
that you’ll never have this heart again

so don’t look back
don’t look down
stay real still
I’m not around

This video is hella old:

nyc. january 2012.

Because there’s nothing more beautiful or terrifying than the personal revelation that you are deeply human and irrevocably flawed:

Of course all life is a process of breaking down, but the blows that do the dramatic side of the work — the big sudden blows that come, or seem to come, from outside — the ones you remember and blame things on and, in moments of weakness, tell your friends about, don’t show their effect all at once. There is another sort of blow that comes from within — that you don’t feel until it’s too late to do anything about it, until you realize with finality that in some regard you will never be as good a man again. The first sort of breakage seems to happen quick — the second kind happens almost without your knowing it but is realized suddenly indeed.

Before I go on with this short history, let me make a general observation — the test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in the mind at the same time, and still retain the ability to function. One should, for example, be able to see that things are hopeless and yet be determined to make them otherwise. This philosophy fitted on to my early adult life, when I saw the improbable, the implausible, often the “impossible,” come true. Life was something you dominated if you were any good. Life yielded easily to intelligence and effort, or to what proportion could be mustered of both. It seemed a romantic business to be a successful literary man — you were not ever going to be as famous as a movie star but what note you had was probably longer-lived; you were never going to have the power of a man of strong political or religious convictions but you were certainly more independent. Of course within the practice of your trade you were forever unsatisfied — but I, for one, would not have chosen any other.