“This is not a matter of statistics or trends; it’s my life. There is no advertisement for it. Funnily, that’s one of the better selling points imaginable: once you realise you’re not obligated to persuade others about your existence, it becomes a lot easier to exist.” Sloane Crosley.
Molly Crabapple on her ‘Week in Hell’. Wonderful.
“It was an intense, formative time for me. I was thinking very hard about everything, including, but not only, feminism. One night I suggested we drive up to the hills overlooking the city. We parked and stood together on the edge of a cliff. I asked him to go down on me while I looked at the view. When he stood up again, I broke up with him.” Miranda July, and others, share their first times in Rookie.
“I think I may be the voice of my generation. Or at least a voice. Of a generation.” Lena Dunham in ‘Girls’ - I haven’t seen it yet but I’m so excited about the potential of this show.
How proper iced coffee is brewed differently than hot, in New York Magazine. This is hardcore coffee knowledge, which I do appreciate, plus it really makes me want to go to New York.
“It is a universal truth that all artists think they a frauds and charlatans, and live in constant fear of being exposed. We believe by working harder than anyone else we can evaded detection.” A short lesson in perspective, in The San Francisco Egotist [via Jessica Stanley, whose own weekly links round-ups are always a treat.]
“In the airport. Ashen faced, hair like nightmares, they wheeled their luggage to the nearest restaurant, where they ate pizzas together in silence. That was how it ended, this fantasy made flesh. In dough, and cheese, and medicated jet lag. That was it.” OH EVA.
A black and yellow ball of fuzz is hovering up the strip of light falling across the floorboards, and I’m taken aback by how loud it is. I can’t remember the last time I saw a bumble bee, I think as I shoo it back outside. A small blue butterfly lands in the ferns, everything in the little garden world is quiet except from the wind rustling the leaves and the faint sound of waves crashing. The soles of my bare feet grab against the warm brick walkway, and the ants hurry away from me, the ungraceful intruder. I crouch down and watch them, they are carrying giant loads and never stop for even a tiny breather. Some plant with pinhead-sized leaves has sprouted in the cracks between the paving stones; there are patterns everywhere if you look close enough, everything has a hundred colours. I sink my knees into the grass, it is still damp at the roots. I keep forgetting it’s only April, and the summer is stretching long, long ahead of us. The Boy comes up and crouches down behind me, placing his hand at the nape of my neck as he tells me I look like a child, sitting there engrossed by the textures of the garden universe. Like this is how I would have sat and pondered as a little girl, all peaceful and contented, he says as he traces the outline of my spine down my back. He may be right, but I had few witnesses back then. All I know is I spent a lot of time studying leaves, in a time when summers were short and you could always hear the distant rustle of a whitewater river.
Later the Boy and I are at the beach, we lie back in spite of the pebbles and close our eyes to protect against the sun. I know I slept because my next memories are of things belonging in dreamscape. The sea air has knocked out our city bodies, and all we think about are napping and eating. In the evening we tuck away great big steaks with oily potatoes and fresh asparagus and no one has ever had a more satisfying meal.
On the ferry back to the mainland we find the top deck with its plastic benches, dry but with a sticky salty feel under our hands. The air is white and the sea is silver, and I tuck my toes in between the bars of the railing and give up trying to control my hair in the wind. Back in the city the Boy and I queue at the train turnstiles, by the tube escalators, in the corner shop; we piece together a dinner from foods in jars and tins because it’s Easter Sunday and everywhere is closed. On the island all my thoughts were about ants and leaves, steaks and strawberries; I was wonderfully contented and the dullest conversation partner. Just shrugging and smiling. With our pasta and olives in hand we run across the road to beat the speeding cars, it’s hot down on the streets between the houses and city grime is covering out salty feet. I can feel my thoughts start stirring again, and I remember why I live here.