20 April 2025
good afternoon,
slow news day because it is Easter Sunday for everyone.
Emerald Drifters, Cig Harvey’s newest book featuring her photography series which explores beauty as a means of “cultural coercion” was featured in a New Yorker Magazine article by (sadist and author) Ocean Vuong. with his expert literary references and sensitivity to loss, domesticity, and subversion, Vuong has the perfect eye to examine Harvey’s work.
Ukraine is calling for a true Easter ceasefire, as proposed (and subsequently broken early this morning) by Russia #sneaky #whoissurprised.
Senator van Hollen really wants you to know he and his deported constituent Abrego Garcia didn’t touch the margarita props that were on the table when they met.
despite having led the Rangers to the President’s Cup last season, Peter Laviolette is out. ah yes, (for the fifth time in ten years) it is again the coach’s fault, and not some deeper rot in the team and its management that has caused the team to crash and burn before Stanley Cup time.
here are my notes on the season so far:
trees with young green leaves are waving in the newly warm breeze. they move at another pace, they remind me of sea anemones. I stand beneath them, entranced, until the scent of lilac takes me by the shoulders and shakes me awake. I have been sleepwalking. I’m reminded that I am dying to do something with my life. not like losing weight or starting a blog, but like, writing a book or going back to learning a fourth language. I am starving to know and do and try it all. well, I say so but it’s been months since I’ve written a single meaningful thing. I’ve been too easily distracted by every single bauble that shimmers in my peripheral vision.
whatever.
a few weeks ago I began a new job which I worked hard for. I have also begun studying wines. it is teaching me to be really patient and hedonistic which feels both foreign and natural. respectively, I mean: the hedonism comes easily, patience less so.
yes, I am learning to live at 0.5 speed. I smell like rose centifolia and nothing means anything to me anymore. I am transparent like a ghost and the space between my ribs is wide enough that nothing touches my bones as it passes through me. or maybe I just don’t assign it the meaning it needs to be able to touch me.
now my life is basil candles and open windows and walking home. it is hunger and fresh flowers every single week and ditching wobbly tables on Montmartre terrasses for the next spot with cherry or honey-colored light. my life is my strappy pink shoes on Oberkampf sidewalks and my life is describing the last best wine I had to someone from another time in my life.
as I clean my room I tune the radio app on my phone to some Spanish-language station and listen to words and prayers I don’t totally understand. the voice coming from my phone and the other side of the world is thunderous and staticky, but addictive still. the station has a couple thousand other listeners. together we worship thoughtfully.
have a good day ⋆˚✿˖°
