Like a length of string, like a lily of a day a firm, fragile thing. A spring stuck in play; or, the spring that can begin halfway to halfway The fixed compass pin where every line and degree meet their … Read More
I’ve been here for forty days. Each day is the same, by which I mean they are all different. The walls of my room are supposed to be beige, but they’re not. They’re grey. I tried to draw the solar … Read More
I am on my balcony. I have been here for three days and two nights. It was my wife who put me here. It happened like this:
At dawn, when we wake, she wakes, I see: she, simulacrum of sweetie, presently bovine sweetie, clodhopper lovely, trundle fatly to her boudoir to assess the damage: six digits, the tally. These days, my girl: formidable haunches, breasts sapped of buoyancy, deflated balloon breasts, gobs of fatty skin where there ought only to be loveliness. She squirms into her negligee, once loose-fit, casual, today perilously taut, and thumps into the kitchen. When she walks her feet slap the floor.
Blue Valentine writer and director Derek Cianfrance’s latest film The Place Beyond the Pines is, if anything, a study in what Robert Penn Warren, legendary 1940s author of All the King’s Men, calls “the awful responsibility of Time.” We begin with Ryan Gosling’s character Luke Glanton, a reckless circus-performing motorcyclist. Seemingly out of nowhere, Luke has great responsibility thrust upon him when an old flame from an upstate New York carnival stop steps back into his life with his infant son.
I had already seen the movie in theaters three times. Enjoyment is one word, obsession is another. The first three times, this film had sent me into hysterics, including, but not limited to impassioned weeping, strings of incoherent syllables, and frenzied gesticulation at the screen. In each of my three previous viewings, the usual suspects (“I Dreamed a Dream,” Fantine’s passing, “When Tomorrow Comes”) were to blame, but during this latest screening at the Garden Theater, the floodgates held fast against their onslaught
Eight years ago street artist Banksy disguised himself, entered the British Museum, and put a piece of his own work up on a wall. It was a slab of concrete, on which he had painted a cave figure drawing of a man with a shopping cart. Banksy even added an object label reading that this cave drawing pictured “early man venturing towards the out-of-town hunting grounds,” and was created by artist “Banksymus Maximus.”
A French damsel and I decided to take a train To New York to see the Gates and be at play. You were late to the Dinky and had to book It to meet me by the stop to pause, … Read More
Those pills, those—what were they?—those pills we ate are going crazy. My limbs are, like, exploding off me. I feel great. You look very pretty now. I mean, I feel great! How do you, how do you feel? Not going … Read More
