Sunday, November 12, 2017

New York by Saint Vincent

Sometimes I hear a piece of music and can tell that years from now it will make me think of this time and this season. Saint Vincent's New York is that for me right now with its wistfulness and self-realization, the knowledge-too-late of it all, how people define our places. The tender and profane blend perfectly too (though I'm using her edit "other sucker" when I play it live this Saturday at Avalon). I can't stop listening.

Sunday, November 5, 2017

from On Chesil Beach by Ian McEwan

This is how the entire course of life can be changed – by doing nothing. On Chesil beach he could have called out to Florence, he could have gone after her. He did not know, or would not have cared to know, that as she ran away from him, certain in her distress that she was about to lose him, she had never loved him more, or more hopelessly, and that the sound of his voice would have been a deliverance, and she would have turned back. Instead, he stood in cold and righteous silence in the summer’s dusk, watching her hurry along the shore, the sound of her difficult progress lost to the breaking of small waves, until she was blurred, receding against the immense straight road of shingle gleaming in the pallid light.

Lines Written between Dublin and Keflavik

These words are not meant to be read in their entirety. Skim them the way this plane skims the cloud layer, jostling sometim...