Cat Blogging Except With People Instead Of Cats
I have been traveling since before Christmas, and am delighted to have returned. Unfortunately, the combination of a plane flight and a very bad cold have left my voice in tatters, my ears in cotton, my hands a-trembling, and my brain in first gear. You see, when I get sick, I get shallow. Therefore, until I have had a chance to sleep a lot, and regain my concern for Love and Death, here are some photos that explain better than I could, or words could, the divide in my own life between the utopian dreams of my hometown, and the enervating realities of the city. All pictures are from the past two weeks.
Many thanks to John Keats, Robert Frost, Walt Whitman, Matthea Harvey, and Jean Genet.
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Charm’d magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn
This was what the view from my Main St. looked like for the first sixteen years of my life.
The best way is to come up hill with me
And have our fire and laugh and be afraid.
The two figures in the water are great swimmers, brothers, and close friends. You cannot tell from the picture how cold the water is.
O the sleeping bag contains
the body but not the dreaming head.
The city: San Francisco. A friend pretends to star in Less Than Zero. The dreaming head, posed, merely.
Weidmann appeared before you in a five o’ clock edition […] revealing to the mirthless bourgeois that their daily lives are grazed by enchanting murderers.
We did not know what to make of this. Obviously, there could be no question of a fair trial — or, for that matter, of innocence. The story was meaningless. It was merely sad. The man’s death did not even vaguely resemble a triumph.
We did to the headline what we thought Helmut Newton would have done: angrily.