As you may know, NYC is in the midst of a slew of contemporary dance festivals all over this schizophrenic city and, guys, if you haven’t been you still have a few more days to experience the awesome.
I record myself reading them in the middle of the night, my mouth right up close to the microphone. They sound dark and right and bare.
A 28-year-old vlogger with a BA in poetry and a love of alligators? Yes, thanks.
Why do we define a work by these shades of grey rather than by the work itself? Maybe the problem is that we’re looking at a book as the complete object of a complete human, when everything’s really always a work in progress. Would that make us more open? How useful really is the question, “is that a real poem?”
All the questioning comes to this: is life an end in itself? We know that to live is a gesture of great faith and belief in the human experience — is it worth it? As much as my sadness wants to say no, there’s some part of me, the part maybe most human, that always says yes, of course it is.
I would watch her drawing on a large notepad, telling me I wasn’t a real artist if I didn’t draw nudes, or sitting, fiddling with something, being envious of how clothes looked better on her than they did on me, and wishing for that. I was six. She was eight.
If you haven’t finished your elaborate, alter-ego outfit by this point your best bet for a spirited costume is to stop worrying about being recognizable as someone, and just get into the Halloween spirit (it’s much more fun that way anyhow).
I still don’t know how to respond to this question. And what’s more, I thought that I did.
Your Thursday night: masks, astrology, the shimmery lights of the Manhattan Bridge, and the writings of David Lehman, Jackson Taylor, Rachel Eliza Griffiths and many more!
On the list of things that are more intuitive than you’d think: bicycling, sex (but not sexting), oh, yeah, and experimental dance. Yes — seriously.
Yep, I love when YouTube makes me feel great about my life, and I don’t mean watching stupid FHV, makeup tutorials, or cat videos. If you haven’t checked out YouTube in a while, it’s totally turning into a place where you can get good advice about life in general, news, learn foreign languages, get important info …
Edward (I’ve decided we’re on a first name basis) is known for his goth Victorian and flapper pen-and-ink illustrations, but he also wrote the majority of his “adult picture books” (I don’t mean porn, I just mean you wouldn’t wanna read them to your kids ’cause they’d probably scar them). He also roomed at Harvard with Frank O’Hara – no biggie.
Someone came up to me on the street the other day while I was walking my dog and said, “Excuse me, ma’am. Your dog’s gonna die some day.” She must’ve been my age, just sitting at a bus stop in the middle of a warm afternoon on a somewhat busy street.
If singing wasn’t something that moved us so greatly, we wouldn’t feel the need to make musicals. But it is, and so we do, so saying that there’s some worth to removing the art from this art form clearly shows only a misunderstanding of musical theater and the voice.
Last week I found out that Sondheim’s Into the Woods is being made into a movie-musical with (of course!) Johnny Depp as the Wolf and Sophia Grace as Little Red Riding Hood. Enough is enough.