the days when anything goes
your bibliomancy forecast for the week of march 31st
an excerpt from The Complete Stories of Leonora Carrington and the two of swords:
“I couldn't believe my eyes. Yet as I looked from the model to the portrait there was no denying the truth. The more I looked at the corpse, the more striking became the resemblance of these pale features. On canvas, the face was unquestionably mine.”
the aleatory
Many years ago, I dated a guy who was obsessed with memento mori. He always wanted to meet in graveyards. He rode a motorcycle, installed security systems, was no longer allowed into the Rivers Casino for reasons that were not made clear. For him, the skull was the essential memento mori: the hollow eyes, the eternal smile, etc. etc. etc.
But the skull inside the body has never given me the chill of time—not like the face. Having a face, who needs to be reminded of death? Having a face which, when it is photographed, reveals that everyone who isn’t you knows a completely different person than the one you see in the mirror. And it shows the folds of constant perplexity between your eyebrows. It makes plain that you sleep with your head tucked into the pillow like a soldier hiding his face from shrapnel. A skull is nothing if you have a face.
the forecast
Find the dull side of every sharp thought.
writing prompt
Write an insignificant 10-line poem. Then consider your house to be a machine that spits out a version of you with particular thoughts and horizons, and make a few changes to the machine. Brush your teeth somewhere unusual. Then write another insignificant 10-line poem.
a chune
“Cheer” by Neung Phak
I’ve been enjoying the shit out of White Lotus—any time Parker Posey says anything I basically just scream at my TV because I love it so much. (And I think she’s the one who’s going to die, based on her tsunami dream and the fact that I need Rick and Chelsea to be happy forever.) I’ve noticed that the soundtrack often pulls this clever move of putting the most emotionally direct moments in Thai songs this season. It has the effect of sublimating what would be an unbearable sentimentality into the sense of place instead of the scenes. It’s an interesting effect, although I don’t think I’ve completely figured out what it accomplishes. But anyway. It reminded me of this gem from the 2006 music issue of The Believer, which happens to be a really great soundtrack for the elliptical machine in the student center. (Don’t ask me how I know.)
credits: small spells tarot deck by Rachel Howe
The Complete Stories of Leonora Carrington
Neung Phak (mono pause) by Neung Phak
dear diary, it’s so strange to get older. A few weeks ago, at my new apartment, I overheard one of the neighbors with her family sitting out in the shared patio area. Her little brother was playing spotify DJ and telling all of them the facts about various Dylan albums (which was kind of cute because it seemed like he was mainly interested in how long they took to record, which doesn’t necessarily make my personal top 10 list of interest facts about a record, unless it takes so long to record because somebody died. Anyway, he cued up a song for them and said that they would love it because it had the same singer as Fleetwood Mac … and he played “Every Day Is a Winding Road” by Sheryl Crow. I could have died. Maybe I did die. (Who needs memento mori when there are younger generations mistaking Sheryl Crow for Stevie Nicks?)
lolololol. GOLD.