SHELTER

A QUIET POEM

by Frank O'Hara

When music is far enough away

the eyelid does not often move

and objects are still as lavender

without breath or distant rejoinder.

The cloud is then so subtly dragged

away by the silver flying machine

that the thought of it alone echoes

unbelievably; the sound of the motor falls

like a coin toward the ocean's floor

and the eye does not flicker

as it does when in the loud sun a coin

rises and nicks the near air. Now,

slowly, the heart breathes to music

while the coins lie in wet yellow sand.

BODIES AT REST

First seen in Harper's a few years ago, this remains a worthy (re-)read, especially as the metaphysical wrecking ball of parenthood swings near. 

SO WINNING

"... so winning, so sweetly reasonable as to make her the dearest of friends to all who had the privilege of intimate association with her, and a permanent source of refreshment to the human spirit. She intuitively perceived life under the highest possible forms, the forms of beauty and love. Truth and goodness were, she thought, means for the achievement of those two supreme ends. Truth was to her a handmaid of the spiritualized imagination, not its tyrant. Many of those who pass lives of unremitting preoccupation with the problems of truth and goodness are wearied and encumbered with much serving. We honor them, and rightly; but if they have nothing but this to offer us, our hearts do not run to meet them." —Algar Thorold, Viareggio, Italy, 1906 (as excerpted from the introduction to his translation of "The Dialogue of Saint Catherine of Siena)

RELATIVITY

I once was involved in the staging of a crime scene in Long Beach. It was nothing sinister, just a small fit of pranking on some friends who were out of town and had left us their keys for housesitting purposes. The day before they returned, we placed faux murder weapons (ketchup-smeared cutlery, etc.) and some ominous Post-Its in just about every room. To cap it off, we used masking tape to make a fake chalk outline of a homicide vic just inside the front door. It was great for morbid laughs, and passably funny to the residents the next day, until they pulled up the tape and simultaneously pulled a layer of finish off the wood floor, leaving a semi-permanent chalk outline. (Did I mention they were renting the place?) I was remembering this today and thinking it would make a great metaphor for something else, though I have no idea what.

DULY NOTED

FARLEY, IN MEMORIAM

Chris Farley was, in the parlance of our time, not to be fucked with, so it's perfectly appropriate to see the Wisconsin Historical Society hosting a memorial exhibition ten years after his passing. Still, any museum event touting the display of props from "Tommy Boy" and "Beverly Hills Ninja" seems underpinned by a particularly abject sort of longing.

EVEN THE ANIMALS...

It's hard to believe that no one has remade this yet. 

RIDE THE FADER

For modernist heshers, there may be no better soundtrack for the onset of summer. The cult of Chavez has been better noted since the release of their retrospective box. There's still some valuable skinny on the Matador site, too, including a couple of free downloads. Caveat: Laptop speakers will not suffice, particularly if you enjoy gratuitous bass drops and wantonly meatheaded drum fills. And you should.

TRANSMITTING

They haven't stopped making paint yet.