There’s a Leonard Cohen poem in the new Walrus.
We find ourselves on different sides / of a line that nobody drew.
I tore it out of the magazine, I stuck it on the fridge. He didn’t say anything.
>
"Life is not easy. It is awfully lonely. I know that. Now you too know it — wherever you are, Linda, talking to me. But I’ve had a good life — I wrote unhappy — but I lived to the hilt. You too, Linda — Live to the HILT! To the top."
Feel like this picture is classic us. Taken by pretty Laura Serra, at last night’s Topshop x The Bay x The Kills party, for The Grid After Dark.
>
"It can be felt as love when you want to fuck someone and can’t."
— from an E.L. Doctorow story I was reading on the plane; wow.
>
"His face was so much more interesting than any other face I’d ever seen, with extraordinarily sad eyes and a beautiful mouth. He read me his poetry, and it was always a play on words. That was such an unusual trait—to be that romantic and funny."
—
Jane Birkin on Serge Gainsbourg in Newsweek.
image via
WEDDING-ITIS. But really, why am I such a sad impressionable girl-girl for whom Sofia Coppola’s in-Alaia union is a cause of actual tears? Just because I like lavender too? And hazy candid photos? And have wanted to honeymoon in Italy since I was eight and read about it in a hardback novel? Because why, mom?
Photos via I Want To Be a Coppola (duh).
summer hours
And so this is us.
Photo cred Sarah Marantz.
Yesterday I went to see Gena Rowlands talk about her late man John Cassavetes. She’s 81 and looks fantastic. She talked for a long time in a long-gravel-road voice. There’s a Cassavetes retrospective on at the Lightbox here, that’s why all of this happened. Anyway. The host asked what drew her to John. She said “first of all, he was beautiful.” Then she said she liked the way he thought about life, and about work, and about life.
To hear her talk about him, and then to see them as one on screen, you think well maybe they were naturals at love.
Still from Faces via toutlecine.com
My darlin’ Evanne got married in New York last month and had a party on her friend’s balcony, to which I went with my best. She said she felt like a little girl playing bride. She looked like the sweetest thing. I wanted to cry.
All day we fought. At the beach we fought. At the pool we fought. How do you fight when it’s a clean thirty degrees and you’re swimming on a Monday afternoon? It takes years. Let me tell you. We fought because he doesn’t do enough or I expect too much and because he doesn’t take romance seriously (seriously) and I am jealous of girls who are less attractive because they must be better people (seriously) and he’s not listening and I can’t relax and he, and he, and I, and I. Then we fought cause he wouldn’t get a tattoo and I wouldn’t move to the American South and we don’t like the same stories so how will we ever have a happy ending? We fought because I told him what I wanted on my tombstone and he just said oh, you’re romantic, and then that looks like a nice avocado in your salad. We fought like it was the first time we’d realized we had “nothing in common.”
Then we sat in the park and watched seagulls flying for what felt like forever. So.
