Last December I decided to start making a playlist for every month, like, well, pretty much everyone. Instead of just pushing together a bunch of songs I like every first of the month, though, I thought I’d put it together over the course of the entire month—adding a bunch of tunes in the beginning, listening to something else for eight days straight, adding that, deciding I hate some of them, deleting them, finding new bands, and on and on and on.
And then, because I think I’m pretty clever, I forced myself to limit the number of songs to however many days there are in the month. February is when I really started to hate that particular rule.
Continue reading Playlist — December 2016
I wasn’t sure … I didn’t know what I was until about 1952 or ’53. I knew that I loved very much my roommate at college, where I had had my first lesbian experience. But it wasn’t until I was a camp counselor in West Virginia that I had the experience that gave me some notion of what my life was about to be all about. I was sitting on a hill … and I was reading a letter from my roommate, the lover of my life, the very first lesbian relationship that I’d ever had. Her parents had taken her off to Scandinavia because they had found out the nature of our relationship. She had written me a goodbye letter, and I was sitting there on Vesper Hill, looking out over the beautiful Greenbrier River, crying like a baby, because I didn’t think there was anybody else in the world like me. I had never heard the word ‘lesbian.’ I had never dreamed that there was anybody else who had any kind of orientation like I did or who loved the way that I did … Suddenly a shadow fell across the paper, and I looked up, hiding the letter, into the face of the camp bugler, a rather butch-looking woman that I had had some questions about. She was standing up there and she was toking on her cigarette … and then she sort of squatted down beside me. And here we were, the two of us, sitting there looking out over the beautiful Greenbrier River. And then she puts her hand on my shoulder, she takes another toke off of the cigarette, and she blows it off and she says, “We are growing in numbers every day.”
— Last Call at Maud’s, Sally Miller Gearhart
Alternatively: Someone out there right now is in need of a shirt that says “I sent a rude anon on Tumblr and all I got was this essay on the place The Death of The Author in modern discourse instead.”
Yesterday I finally finished How to Read Literature Like a Professor by Thomas C. Foster, which I got for either Christmas or my birthday (they’re relatively close together so it’s hard to remember which). While I did find it overall enjoyable and educational, it raised again the issue I have with “Death of the Author” that has now been actively plaguing me for the past 27 hours.
Continue reading Some Idiot Sent Me a Stupid Message and I Didn’t Want to Deal With It so I Did This Instead
The More Loving One
Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.
Were all starts to disappear or die, I Should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.
Comforting nihilism. That’s my brand. Life is meaningless and that’s what keeps me living it.
Continue reading On Existential Comfort