If you’re reading this after 2012, the Mayans were dead
wrong. Even so it’s been wonderful speaking
in the future tense. There must be simpler ways to tell
which way apocalypse is heading. I would like to live
aimlessly, a prophet inspired by pure hallucination.
Desire is the fossil…
[I]t’s time for the day to be over. We throw our parties; we abandon our families to live alone in Canada; we struggle to write books that do not change the world, despite our gifts and our unstinting efforts, our most extravagant hopes. We live our lives, do whatever we do, and then we sleep— it’s as simple and ordinary as that. A few jump out of windows or drown themselves or take pills; more die by accident; and most of us, the vast majority, are slowly devoured by some disease or, if we’re fortunate, by time itself. There’s just this for consolation: an hour here or there when our lives seem, against all odds and expectations, to burst open and give us everything we’ve ever imagined, though everyone but children (and perhaps even they) knows these hours will inevitably be followed by others, far darker and more difficult, for more.
Heaven only knows why we love it so.
This Sunday’s cover retains all of the emotion, desperation and despair of the original while putting a beautifully unique spin on it. In this bittersweet and delicate version of I Know It’s Over by alternative greats The Smiths, (the sadly late) Jeff Buckley uses his superbly exquisite vocal range and masterful fingerpicking skills to create a completely different yet equally poignant atmosphere. The result is a breathtaking and sublime take on an already spectacular classic.
"Like is in the air."
Half Moon Cafe
by Emily Saliers (Indigo Girls)
"As the people who adore you stop adoring you, as they die, as they move on, as you shed them, as you shed your beauty, your youth, as the world forgets you, as you recognize your transience, as you begin to lose your characteristics one by one, as you learn there is no one watching you, and there never was, you think only about driving. Not coming from anyplace, not arriving anyplace. Just driving, counting off time."
Synecdoche, New York (Charlie Kaufman)
That was the year, my twenty-eighth, when I was discovering that not all of the promises would be kept, that some things are in fact irrevocable and that it had counted after all, every evasion and ever procrastination, every word, all of it.