"They're [my parents] both supportive though. I went to New York Fashion Week parties with my dad, at some point he was dancing and I went like: 'Dad! Stop!' I don't even dance; I'm too embarrassed for myself. And he was like: 'Why? Other men here are dancing. Larry Gagosian is dancing and we're not too far apart in age.' So I said: 'Yeah dad, but Larry Gagosian is cool!"

Tavi interviewed in Mykromag

The Dreamers

Down With Sentimentalism

I don't think I was the only one who was moved by Cesare Pavase's Diaries on This Recording a few days ago. Here are some of my favorite entries:

Bachelors regard matrimony more seriously than married people do

It is a certain sign of love to want to know, to relive, the childhood of the other.

The profession of enthusiasm is the most sickening of all insincerities.

Can it be true that you fall in love only with women who are very popular (the ballerina, Gognin) and that what pleases you about them is that they are desired by everyone, that you suffer because you are not the only one to possess them? The really clever thing, in affairs of this sort, is not to win a woman already desired by everyone, but to discover her while she is still unknown. (Cinderella.)

Love has the faculty of making two lovers seem naked, not in each other's sight, but in their own.

The cure for sentimentalism is to become, not cynical, but serious-minded.

As for love affairs, we can only tolerate our own.

Like a Shot to the Heart

So you don’t answer the phone, you don’t do e-mail.

No, I do. I’m not, like… I don’t curate the museum of my writing. I am not at all prissy about it. Things don’t have to be a certain way, and life gets in the way all the time. When I was in college and starting to think about writing, I was driving once from Princeton to D.C., where my parents lived, and there was a sex therapist on the radio. And someone called with whatever problem, and this therapist said, “What do you do in the bedroom?” And the guy was like, “Well, watch TV, sleep, have sex, do my taxes; that’s where we change our clothes…” And the therapist said, “Don’t do anything in your bedroom except have sex and sleep. Don’t watch TV, don’t do—because all these things are going to be on your mind, and it’s going to be much harder to separate this thing that needs to be separated out.” And writing is like that. If you don’t find a way to create a wall between it and the world, the world will always win.

What helps about listening to music?

I think music is probably the most directly impactful art form. I mean, it’s the one that, within three minutes, you can find yourself screaming at the top of your lungs and banging your fists. And a novel never does that.

A poem can do that sometimes.

A poem can do that, it’s true. But not quite like that. I mean, certainly you can’t, like, turn up the volume on a poem. A poem is still always going to be a more active experience than listening to music. And there’s something about the passiveness of it that allows for whatever mood you’re in to really enter.

It works on the limbic system, in a way.

Yeah, that’s what it is. It’s a very quick way. It’s like a shot to the heart, you know.

Slate V, “Open Book: Jonathan Safran Foer”

Hustlin'

Dream

I am in my childhood backyard (I dream of this often). It is larger, with areas of cement and also the woods and creek running behind the fence. There is some sort of circus going on, with tents and rings for animals like lions and tigers. I have come with my family and friends but their faces are all blurred, except for my brother Greg's. He is standing, stoic and still, staring at me. (I used to dream that he had lost too much weight, that he was withering away but refused to eat. It would worry me to no end.)

There is a cement ring and an adjacent tent, stripped with one flap eerily pulled back. A miniature horse without a saddle trots around the ring in a circle. It looks like a toy and I kick it; it flies a few feet and lands daintily a few feet away, at which time a menacing rhinoceros/hippo charges out of the tent toward the horse and bunts it back towards me. It is a disturbing game of fetch, and somehow I know that once the game is started, there is no way to end it. I must continue to kick the horse away and watch the rhinoceros/hippo's oversized, sharp white teeth snarl as he runs clumsily toward it.

Meanwhile Greg stares, a completely motionless blank slate. I call to him to help me. I scream at him. But there is no response. I am tired and can no longer kick the horse and I stop to rest, but the rhinoceros/hippo immediately notices my stall and charges towards me. He clasps my arm, bent, in his massive mouth and lifts me off the ground as he runs along the fence. I know the skin has not broken, but the bone surely has, and I scream and flail in desperation. After a few long moments of this I manage to break free, and the rhinoceros/hippo disappears.

When I come to, I notice Greg is still standing there, just looking at me. I hobble over to him, my arm throbbing, and stand in front of him, but underneath, as he is much taller than me.

What is wrong with you?! I shout.
Why didn't you do anything? I implore.

No response.

I WAS ALMOST KILLED AND YOU DIDN'T DO ANYTHING!
FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU!

I scream, I am crying, I am sobbing uncontrollably.
My face is streaming, wet with tears.

I ALMOST DIED
YOU DIDN'T DO ANYTHING
FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU

I ALMOST DIED
I ALMOST DIED
I ALMOST DIED

I....ALMOST....died

No response.

It's Out There

Via Frances May, last two images by by Erin Hanson

I've always loved this song


via Lady Lunacy