…But departure kisses aren’t the only kind, and they’re certainly not the best kind, so I went downstairs to the arrival hall to observe arrival kisses. Arrival kisses are always shorter than departure kisses, because there’s so much to say and so much more time to say it. Arrival kisses tend to be more forceful, less tender, and, surprisingly, often more tearful. This is a thing I’ve noticed. While it has never bothered me that no one comes with me to say goodbye when I leave from an airport, I confess a twang of regret that no one is ever waiting to pick me up, because arrival kisses can be so very nice. Alas, if anybody is waiting for me, it tends to be a taxi driver. None of them has ever kissed me, let alone jumped into my arms, as sometimes occurs with arrival kisses.
“Oh, man! admire and model thyself after the whale! Do thou, too, remain warm among ice. Do thou, too, live in this world without being of it. Be cool at the equator; keep thy blood fluid at the Pole. Like the great dome of St. Peter’s, and like the great whale, retain, O man! in all seasons a temperature of thine own. But how easy and how hopeless to teach these fine things! Of erections, how few are domed like St. Peter’s! of creatures, how few vast as the whale!”—Moby Dick
“The more difficult part of being a 68 year old child is that world isn’t as surprising as it is when you’re, you’re know, 6, 7, 8 years old. And as you get older the predictability is just more predictable. So that’s the hard part, trying to keep yourself excited about life; because it’s so easy to just get bored with life and die. But somehow I’ve managed to keep a bit of interest in it.”— Terry Gilliam “Monty Python: Almost The Truth”
cleopatra [played by kim kardashian in my mind] apparently placed a bet with marc antony that she was capable of spending a small fortune on a meal. while i’m prone to hyperbole and claim that i could do such a thing, new research shows that cleopatra actually did spend a small fortune to win her bet.
legend has it that she achieved this [ridiculous, bougie, insulting let-them-eat-cake] feat by drinking a cocktail made from dissolved pearl. the linked article above proves how this was both possible and, sadly, probable.
there’s an amazing collection of rare, 1940’s color photographs over on the denver post today. it’s pretty surreal to see verifiably unretouched images that just look like they belong in black-and-white… go pop.
n. disappointment upon learning that yet another basic historical image is just an urban legend—Vikings’ horns, Napoleon’s shortness, Washington’s cherry tree, Columbus’s flat earth—which raises suspicion that we are being hazed by the dead, who celebrate becoming alumni of life by paddling us with grand sweeps of history.
on recreational alcoholism and an air of dangerous possibility
what an absolutely lovely article from the new york times! it’s no secret that i love mad men. (somewhere, someone in the background is yelling, “you would, you hipster!!!”) the piece doesn’t entirely nail why it is that i like the show — for instance, i don’t actually feel a sense of superiority thanks to the lens of our ‘healthy’ present while looking back at such gauche behavior — but its awesome moments outweigh the elements with which i don’t identify.
I was struck by how much these productive and famous people drank. Today we would dismiss all of these brilliant, narcissistic artists and writers as alcoholics, the word itself carrying its own antiseptic morality, its own irrefutable argument for balance and sobriety, but back then they were simply charismatic.
"Now I am quietly waiting for/ the catastrophe of my personality/ to seem beautiful again." —Frank O’Hara [i’ve long harbored a fondness for frank o’hara.]
There was a flow to an evening, a sort of dangerous possibility in the air, that would be entirely foreign at the equivalent party now, at which most people go home with the person they are supposed to go home with.
The idea that you would do something just for the momentary blissful escape of it, for intensity, for strong feeling, is out of fashion.
"How did anyone get any work done?" someone will invariably ask. But maybe that’s the wrong question, or maybe the kind of work they got done was a different kind of work, or maybe that’s not the highest and holiest standard to which we can hold the quality of human life.
long story short: in the past few weeks i’ve begun coming to terms with exactly how much i am a hopeless dreamer; mild pragmatism is simply a hobby at which i excel.
“When you think about it, rules for drinking are not so different from rules for writing. Many of these are so familiar they’ve become truisms: Write what you know. Write every day. Never use a strange, fancy word when a simple one will do. Always finish the day’s writing when you could still do more. With a little adaptation these rules apply just as well for drinking. Drink what you know, drink regularly rather than in binges, avoid needlessly exotic booze, and leave the table while you can still stand.”—Geoff Nicholson, “Drink What You Know”
courtesy of discovery news, this article details the crazy subjectivity involved in determining whether ball lightning, sometimes referred to as “saint elmo’s fire,” really exists… and moreover whether or not it can be conjured using the right combination of ROCKETS.