Sunday, May 13, 2018

Peter Beste

Wednesday, April 4, 2018

My spring reading list, which I'm posting for accountability reasons more than anything else

The Ladies Paradise by Emile Zola
Architecture and Control edited by Annie Bing
Moby-Dick by Herman Melville
Fashion: A Philosophy by Lars Svendsen
Black Men, Black Feminism: Lucifer’s Nocturne by Jared Sexton
Spill: Scenes Of Black Feminist Fugitivity by Alexis Pauline Gumbs
Digital Materialities: Design and Anthropology by Sarah Pink
and Coming of Age in Second Life by Tom Boellstorff, although I keep forgetting about it, but this has more to do with it's usual position under a pile of books or clothes (somehow!) than my enjoyment, or engagement rather, in/with it

As an aside - sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, order a book or sometimes a dozen, and go back to sleep immediately. I think most of my book buying is done in this way, which probably means something to some psychoanalyst somewhere.

"I'm not going to let you go so soon, and so embarrassingly soft."

I read a tweet earlier today that made me seek out a Nina Simone performance I'd never seen, which wrecked me, of course. "I do not believe the conditions that produced a situation that demanded a song like that."

Monday, April 2, 2018

Somewhere someone

"Is it enough...[t]hat we think of him sometimes/Sometimes and always, with mixed feelings?"

Sunday, January 28, 2018

Carl Phillips, "Steeple"

Maybe love really does mean the submission of power—
I don’t know. Like pears on a branch, a shaking branch,
in sunlight, 4 o’clock sunlight, all the ways we do harm,
or refrain from it, when nothing says we have to.... Shining,
everyone shining like that, as if reality itself depended
on a nakedness as naked as naked gets; on a faith in each
other as mistaken as mistaken tends to be, though I have
loved the mistake of it—still do; even now—as I love
the sluggishness with which, like ceremony or, not much
different, any man who, having seen himself at last,
turns at first away—has to—the folded black and copper
wings of history begin their deep unfolding, the bird itself,
shuddering, lifts up into the half-wind that comes after—
higher—soon desire will resemble most that smaller thing,
late affection, then the memory of it; and then nothing at all.
Maira Gall