“Now I’ll get back to the rest of this book, whose main theme is an unfortunate woman. I’m actually writing about something quite serious, but I’m doing it in a roundabout way, including varieties of time and human experience, which even tragedy cannot escape from.
To put it bluntly: Life goes on.
Maybe Euripides woke up in the morning with a hangover when he was writing Iphigenia in Aulis. Perhaps funny, frustrating, totally-without-reason things happened to Euripides while Iphigenia journeyed on toward her sacrifice so the wind would come and take the Greek fleet to Troy where Ulysses picked it up from there and all the way to, years later, Ulysses returning to Ithaca and his friendly encounter with Penelope’s suitors.
I wonder if she ever did any weaving after that.
”
Elegy
A number of people have asked to read this, so I figured that I might as well just put it up online. It is a work-in-progress, of course, infinitely in progress.
September 2007. I had just moved to New York from California a couple of weeks prior, living in an NYU dorm just blocks from the Brooklyn Bridge, of which the poet Hart Crane wrote,
How many dawns, chill from his rippling rest
The seagull’s wings shall dip and pivot him,
Shedding white rings of tumult, building high
Over the chained bay waters Liberty.
A fire alarm went off. My room was on the seventeenth floor. I ran down the stairs. Out of breath, I saw her: dark hair, olive skin, a geometrically perfect Roman nose. Big brown Bambi eyes behind librarian glasses. Appropriate: she worked in a library. Not having previously believed in love at first sight, not fully believing it even then, I experienced it firsthand. There was no need for belief. Much later, before I had told Laura that in this moment—our first moment—I knew that we were meant to be together, she told me that she had felt the same thing.
Of course, we were not actually to “meet” until months later. Sure, we saw each other around frequently, exchanging pleasantries, stealing glances. One day, chatting nervously while checking our mailboxes, I mentioned that I was going to San Diego for spring break. She was staying in New York. She later told me that she missed me that week, kept hoping to see me in the hallway, the elevators, the laundry room. I missed her too. I miss her now.
April 2008. My roommate David—who was to become one of our dearest friends, if he wasn’t already—had decided to throw a party of sorts in our room. We invited a friend, Nandini. Nandini brought a friend of hers along. Her name was Laura. From that time on we were inseparable—almost. One night, I was reading in bed, waiting for Laura to return from her favorite bar, The Four-Faced Liar, where once a week she convened with her favorite drinking buddies, her fellow public historians and archivists. Having always had a propensity for falling asleep while reading in bed before finishing even a handful of pages, I awoke to Laura’s embrace. Apparently, I had left the door to the room unlocked. “I guess you’re…like…my boyfriend now,” she said. “I guess I am,” I said, sleepily and with much understatement. A few weeks later our leases were up, and our mailing addresses parted ways: hers to Chelsea, mine to Williamsburg. But, as my new roommate, Mike Miller—who turned the trio of myself, David, and Laura into a veritable quartet—will attest, that was only a formality. The two of us—if not the four of us—could hardly bear to spend the eight hours of her workday (I, as always, was underemployed) apart.
I’ll let you all in on a little secret. One afternoon, lying beside each other in her apartment, sweltering in the throes of the most New York of summers, Laura asked me, in that form of playfulness which was and will always be uniquely hers: “What if I started calling you ‘Snugglies’?” I scoffed, of course. But it stuck. It became our two-way pet name, a replacement for “honey” or “dear,” terms which caused Laura to roll her eyes whenever I mistakenly chose them as substitutes. Through a morphological shift which remains somewhat mysterious to me today, “Snugglies” became “Snuzzlies”—eventually, it was abbreviated to “Snuzz.” Rarely a sentence exchanged between us was missing this word—a word that we created together, for each other. Anyone who has ever received a misdirected text message from me knows what I’m talking about.
That summer was the best of my life. That was the summer that she met my father, my sister Justine, my mother, who was suffering then from a cancer of her own, whose courage served as an inspiration to Laura in her final days. That was the summer that she met Winston—Winnie, she called him––whose love for and expertise in the culinary arts accelerated a passion which Laura was to pursue for the rest of her life. That summer, in Coney Island—whose gentrifying redevelopment was to be the topic of her Master’s thesis—we rode the Wonder Wheel, and for the first time I came face to face with her most prominent attribute: her strength. I, afraid of heights, could not handle the rocking of the passenger car without a Xanax readily offered by my doting mother, while Laura—enthralled—was having the time of her life. That summer she visited my hometown with me for the first time, meeting more of my siblings (her siblings), my oldest friends, many of whom would soon become her oldest friends––if not in terms of temporality, then in depth of affection. That summer (a prelude to the summers that followed) we had hours and hours of “beach time,” one of her most beloved pastimes—since she was a small child, she told me—on both coasts, she basking in the calming sun, tanning her perpetually bronze skin to an even darker, unimaginably attractive hue. Somehow, it never burned. That fall, strolling down University Place arm in arm, discussing the PhD programs to which I was then submitting applications, I casually mentioned applying to the University of Minnesota, and her eyes lit up. It was not until that winter, when I visited Minnesota for the first time and met her beautiful family—Alan, Linda, Phil, and Dan, who are now my father, my mother, and my brothers—that I truly understood why. The next fall, saying goodbye to Brooklyn and our friends, tears running down our cheeks, we packed up a U-Haul and headed west, beginning the next chapter of our lives together. Unfortunately for us all, the final chapter. For now, anyway.
The last night that she was with us, I had resolved to make Laura feel at home, and I knew that the best way of doing that would be to bring her one of her plants. As many of you know, Laura loved plants—her thumb was the greenest green I ever did see. I still have her plants—they grow into the walls of our apartment, a living, breathing embodiment of her, fed by the sun of our south-facing windows, refracting rainbows on white walls—a sight Laura often awoke delighted to see gratuitously early on Sunday mornings, even after having worked for six days in a row. The two of us often joked that Laura herself was less fauna than flora. I chose one of her favorites and put it in a grocery bag. We didn’t have a car; I walked to the hospital. Upon leaving home, I immediately remembered the time that we had locked ourselves out of our apartment—or, I should say, I locked us out of our apartment. We climbed to the balcony and broke a windowpane. But a plant blocked our entry. It was a cold night of Minnesota winter. We set the plant outside, momentarily, so that Laura—always much slighter than I, especially since it was always my duty, and my duty alone, to consume the numerous and infinitely delicious baked goods that she produced on a regular basis, only to have a small, modest taste for herself (one of many traits she inherited from her mother, I’m sure)—could climb through the window. By the time that we had swept up the broken glass and brought the plant inside—a matter of mere minutes—it had already frozen to death. This night—her last—was another cold night of Minnesota winter—not as cold, but cold nonetheless. I thought—I hoped—that if the plant would be okay, so would she. My pace quickened to a near run. I was listening to my iPod on shuffle, and mere blocks from the hospital, a song came on at random through my headphones—headphones Laura gave to me for my last birthday (all of my prized possessions, trivial as they may seem now, came to me from her): “Do You Realize?” by the Flaming Lips. Perhaps you know it.
Do you realize that you have the most beautiful face?
Do you realize we’re floating in space?
Do you realize that happiness makes you cry?
Do you realize that everyone you know someday will die?
Obviously, at this point, I was crying like a baby as I stumbled down Washington Avenue wearing the fifteen-dollar boots Laura rightfully scolded me for relying upon. But then, the song continued:
And instead of saying all of your goodbyes, let them know
You realize that life goes fast
It’s hard to make the good things last
You realize the sun don’t go down
It’s just an illusion caused by the world spinning round.
And so on. I didn’t realize, at the time. But Laura did. And I do now. That night, Laura was the happiest I’d seen her in days. Without fear. Strong. We watched American Gladiators and laughed. As she drifted off to sleep, she started to mumble nonsense—or so I thought, foolishly. I don’t remember the first few things she said. I wish I did. I repeated what she said to her; she shook it off, citing sleepiness and painkillers. “You should be writing this down,” she joked. But she wasn’t joking—I know that now. The one seeming non sequitur that I remember—because it was at that moment that I realized that she was telling me something, something true, something honest, something untainted by sickness, narcotics, and exhaustion, harkening back to her preteen, pre-iMovie History Day documentaries as well as her more recent PowerPoint presentations to classrooms full of adoring (if only because of her unequaled charisma) teachers and students: “Go to the next slide.” We don’t want to, Laura. None of us want to. Not at all. But we will.
And now, a sort of prayer. Crane ends his poem, “To Brooklyn Bridge,” writing,
O Sleepless as the river under thee,
Vaulting the sea, the prairies’ dreaming sod,
Unto us lowliest sometime sweep, descend
And of the curveship lend a myth to God.
Perhaps I am not the lowliest, but lowly I most certainly am—we all most certainly are. But to Laura, this made no difference: she loved us just the same.
I read this at the memorial service for Laura Zeccardi (January 5, 1985-February 24, 2013) at Chatfield Lutheran Church, Chatfield, MN, March 3, 2013. In the event that reading this inspires you to action of some sort, I’d encourage you to visit http://givemn.razoo.com/story/The-Laura-Zeccardi-Memorial-Endowment-Fund.
Richard Brautigan/California mo(u)rning
“I guess that’s what a passenger’s supposed to do, pass from one place to another, but it doesn’t make it any simpler. About all you can do is wish him luck, and hope that he has some slight understanding of what uncontrollably is happening to him.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I wake up surrounded by dogs. I fucking hate dogs. Not these dogs, though. I look at my phone. 8:30 AM. Sunday, March 17, 2013. San Diego, California. In the home of one of my closest friends, a woman I have not seen for almost six years. We were supposed to have dinner last night at seven. I showed up at her house closer to eight. We laughed. “This was the one thing we promised each other would never happen,” I said. Everything was the same. Everything was different. There’s no use making promises.
Immediately, I am drawn to the copy of Richard Brautigan’s An Unfortunate Woman: A Journey, a paperback that Tali is obviously in the process of reading, a paperback that I noticed last night after spilling a full glass of Riesling all over the floor, momentarily pretending to be an expert on Brautigan, even though I’d never read him, even though I’ve known for years that I should read him, that I’d love him, that I’ve been told this by countless others over and over again. An Unfortunate Woman is Brautigan’s final novel, the novel he wrote just a couple of years before committing suicide. It is a novel about suicide, a novel about a woman dying of cancer. I thought about committing suicide—really thought about it—exactly three weeks ago today, the day that my girlfriend died of cancer. An unfortunate woman. An unfortunate man.
I lay on the couch—the leather sofa that I slept on, which Tali’s boyfriend bought her just yesterday in a sort of “I’m trying” gesture, a consolation for not being able to fuck her, the one thing that Tali does not absolutely love about him in the six short weeks (long weeks, she insists) that they have spent together. I read Brautigan. I steal one of Tali’s American Spirits, go out on the front stoop shoeless to smoke and read Brautigan. I take a shit in Tali’s bathroom—a bathroom whose door will not entirely shut—and read Brautigan. I stretch out on the couch again and read Brautigan. There is a framed poster of Antonioni’s The Passenger hanging above me. I steal another American Spirit and read Brautigan. I text my friend Mike in Minneapolis, “I randomly and hungoverly picked it up at a friends house this morning and I’ve just read half of it. Apropos of my current situation, it is totally destroying me, but in the best way possible” [sic]. It turns out that An Unfortunate Woman is one of two Brautigan books that Mike’s never read. He says he’ll start reading it today, so that we can talk about it when I get back to Minneapolis.
At 9:30 I decide to leave. I put my shoes on and say goodbye to Tali, telling her that I’m taking the book with me, even though borrowing a book someone is in the process of reading is a sin so grave I would have never thought to commit it before. I don’t know anything about myself. I take the book as insurance, to ensure that another six years won’t go by before I see her again. “I’ll give it back to you the next time I see you.” “Okay,” she says, sleepily. “Thank you,” I say, walking out the door.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Yesterday morning I drove up Interstate 5, smoking a cigarette and listening to rock and roll, watching the marine layer give way to sunshine like it eventually does nearly every morning in the “motherland,” as my friend Nasir tends to call it. “I am happy,” I thought. “This is freedom,” I thought. “This is not regressive,” I thought. “This is right,” I thought. Correct. This morning I drive down Interstate 5, the marine layer thicker than yesterday’s, suffocating the smoke of a used up cigarette butt in an empty can of orange juice, hand over the hole to the tune of My Bloody Valentine. I am twenty-seven years old. I am twenty-two years old. It’s time to read more Brautigan.
Obscurantist bromance.
Why do I always watch movies about the Holocaust when Laura is out of town?
“What we really seem to be saying when we speak of the inhuman is that we cannot bear to be confronted with that fathomless baseness shared by all humanity and when we speak of the unnatural that we cannot imagine what vexations nature will dream up next.”
This is what the whiteboard in my classroom looked like at the end of class this morning.
WTF? Also, don’t ask.
x3
New year, new Andypants song (“The Last Will and Testament of Michael Joseph Jackson”). In fact, I’ve compiled this and some of my more recent compositions into The Frank Sobotka EP. Listen, if you are so inclined.
Listen to a new falsetto-laden song from the Strokes called “One Way Trigger”.
weird/yay!
A Short Story/Philosophical Tract
Time it be, other year. I have other people. “You do good way,” he say. High day, they go. “Old man, we can great thing.” She get big woman who would small life them make. Large child, me know national.
The of and a, in that his to but their for, or her with as, my on if your at when its from than. Our by because no about while.
Be having, I not to you. And that he has a go at this, while we say that to my power. Want, but I know where we are in it to see if anything more with no obligation. Yes! As they come on here. Nothing good track!
Of the and in the of the on with it, for the is in the not in one as well. There are at, for he that is assigned in a. To be on is still like a was over so the only, or before to. Until more is by was one percent, had to can the can, even if have. His marks her then, we, I such one year, two years, this this. Back no clock was his will, between what millions always said. This is all, since when it has been now.
The longer that a being is not having, by his for as it would be to have it all. But to do or say this another go and that’s if I already see, because giving time. He very long time without knowing. What about my right one? I also want to year two between large and first since that. Nor, we get to spend time. Her! Yes! Day one well, then put some duty. Sew both man seems our so where now. Party after. Life always be believing speak, lead, leave. Not every follow, unless new find.
The be to of and a, in that have I it for not on with he, as you do at this. But his, by from they—we say—her, she, or an will my one all would there. Their what so up out, if about who get which go me, when make can like time no just him know? Take people into year, your good some could them see. Other than then, now look only come its over think. Also, back after use two, how our work first…well…way even new want. Because any these give day most us.
A Political Speech
The of and to in a our that we be is it for by which have with as not will I. All are their but has government its people from or on my been can us. No, they so an upon who must at may states great them should those shall world more. Country, nation: if every these any was other there, peace own one new only, citizens than power. Public, do such now would his when time constitution united under nations’ union. Me: freedom free. You: America, war. Most what national made, let American fellow good without were spirit. Well…men. Rights, law, justice. Years make life. Laws had Congress before never into best. Each just liberty, duty, hope, work, right, interest. Your against because he state some both among political through many powers know foreign much policy. Executive long history between part first within out progress principles.
New Favorite Tumblr = bargainbinblasphemy
Deleuze/Delouse
How did I forget that this is and always will be my favorite song of all time?
The 50 Best Songs of 2012
A little late, I know—but here you are, nonetheless.
- Cat Power, feat. Iggy Pop, “Nothin’ But Time”
- Beach House, “Myth”
- Jessie Ware, “Devotion”
- Merchandise, “Time”
- Carly Rae Jepsen, “Call Me Maybe”
- Jessie Ware, “Running”
- R. Kelly, “Feelin’ Single”
- Grizzly Bear, “Yet Again”
- Frank Ocean, “Sweet Life”
- Beach House, “Lazuli”
- Jessie Ware, “Sweet Talk”
- Lee FIelds & the Expressions, “You’re the Right Kind of Girl”
- Frank Ocean, feat. Earl Sweatshirt, “Super Rich Kids”
- Jessie Ware, “110%”
- Grizzly Bear, “Sleeping Ute”
- R. Kelly, “Believe That It’s So”
- Frank Ocean, “Thinkin Bout You”
- Tame Impala, “Apocalypse Dreams”
- Mac DeMarco, “Cooking Up Something Good”
- The Shins, “The Rifle’s Spiral”
- Frank Ocean, “Crack Rock”
- Frankie Rose, “Know Me”
- Daniel Rossen, “Up on High”
- Mac DeMarco, “Freaking Out the Neighborhood”
- Young Prisms, “Floating in Blue”
- Mac DeMarco, “Ode to Viceroy”
- Tame Impala, “Elephant”
- Allah-Las, “Ela Navega”
- Cat Power, “Sun”
- R. Kelly, “Share My Love”
- Grizzly Bear, “Gun-Shy”
- Mac DeMarco, “My Kind of Woman”
- kitty pryde, “okay cupid”
- Wild Nothing, “Shadow”
- Cat Power, “Human Being”
- Bob Dylan, “Duquesne Whistle”
- The Shins, “Bait and Switch”
- Cat Power, “3,6,9”
- Hot Chip, “Let Me Be Him”
- Dirty Projectors, “Offspring Are Blank”
- Dirty Projectors, “Gun Has No Trigger”
- Cat Power, “Manhattan”
- Ariel Pink’s Haunted Graffiti, “Baby”
- Merchandise, “Roser Park”
- Frankie Rose, “Apples from the Sun”
- Julia Holter, “In the Same Room”
- Sébastien Tellier, “Cochon Ville”
- Father John Misty, “I’m Writing a Novel”
- Dirty Projectors, “The Socialites”
- Cuckoo Chaos, “Super Skeleton”
Richard Brody on the opening of Paul Thomas Anderson’s “The Master” in France:
They’ll eat it up (as well they should). Along with the reviews that are coming in, the press is offering some terrific and illuminating interviews with Anderson…
Continue reading: http://nyr.kr/ZnKKKd
(Excerpted from The Onion Book of Known Knowledge by Faceless Reader #1783)
django was ill without it.