One Art

Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;

so many things seem filled with the intent

to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster

of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.

The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:

places, and names, and where it was you meant

to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or

next-to-last, of three loved houses went.

The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,

some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.

I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture

I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident

the art of losing’s not too hard to master

though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

Me want

(Via Rainbow Rowell)

But the 'details' are pretty filthy, I'll tell you that much.

Daniel Radcliffe's charm assault on my heart continues with... rapping. I mean... there's nothing not to like here, is there? Could he be more likeable at this point? In my dream future he and I somehow become best friends and he introduces me to Alan "Professor Snape" Rickman and his Kill Your Darlings co-star (and friend) Dane deHaan and then.... well, I'll spare you the details but THINGS HAPPEN.

I want to be alone

I don’t want to make it sound like I’m walking around the street getting catcalled all the time and, oh God, it's just such a pain being so beautiful and desirable because… no.

But like most young(ish) and nice(ish) looking women I have been on the receiving end of unsought attention from random dudes on the street plenty of times.

Sometimes it’s not bad, even ego-boosting, if it’s done in a polite and respectful way and I’m in a good mood. Sometimes it’s gross and offensive and scary. Sometimes it’s done in a polite and respectful way but it feels like The Worst because I’m in a funk or it’s the third time today or I’m just not in the mood to do the little dance so many of us women do, where we smile politely and brush it off without offending anyone too much. Sometimes I smile politely because the guy seems nice and/or harmless and I don’t want to hurt his feelings. Sometimes I smile politely because I’m scared if I don’t he might get angry and hurt me. Hey, my smile says, Please Don’t Murder or Rape Me.

Anyone who thinks I’m being a bit histrionic should check out this video, where a cute New York woman filmed herself walking around the city for a day (in jeans and a tshirt) and got 108 shout-outs from dudes on the street. One hundred and freaking eight. Can you imagine how TIRING it is to face that kind of constant barrage? Can you imagine how FURIOUS she would have felt after 10 hours? Can you imagine how much she would have wanted to just curl up in a dark room somewhere and Not Be Looked At for a few hours?

A reunion

Oh, Alannah, welcome back I HAVE MISSED YOU.

I want my father back, you sonofabitch

I thought this article about time, ageing and The Princess Bride, otherwise known as the Greatest Movie of Our Time, would depress me. It did not. I really love Christopher Guest's bit about the glove because, well: wouldn't you?

Things I can't unthink and wish I could #14

You Always Hurt the One You Love does kind of sound like it might be endorsing domestic violence. Thanks for that one, Andy.

This will not be our year.

There comes a time in every girl's life where she realises that, all going to plan, she'll never fall in love again. You can get super depressed about this super depressing idea if you like. Or you can just listen to this song, maybe have a teensy weep.

Best/worst lines from the new TV series, The Flash

The Best
"The coma... gave me abs?"

The Worst
"We were all struck by that lighting."

Verdict
There's enough goofiness, sufficient laughs and good-looking people being good-looking on screen for me to say that I'm cautiously onboard.

Word

(Via Rainbow Rowell)

I DIE

OH MY FUCKING GOD. SOMEBODY HAS PUT TOGETHER TWO OF MY FAVOURITE THINGS IN THE WORLD: GOOD-LOOKING MEN IN TWEED AND THE MOVIE MAURICE AND I DON'T EVEN KNOW HOW TO BREATHE RIGHT NOW SO I'M REALLY SORRY ABOUT THE CAPS.

Also the bit about jellied breast milk is... yeah, it's something.

There are many elements of this Annabel Crabb/Leigh Sales interview to enjoy. Whether you have an interest in politics or women's issues or anything really it's just delightful. It also feels like a rare treat to read an interview like this involving two smart and funny women who obviously just like each other and seem to be having a grand old time. As much fun as the entire thing was to read I think only this bit made me really laugh out loud in delight because, well: ew.

"For the book, I collected war stories. The best one is this woman I talked to who managed to hold up her end of an international teleconference work call at 5.30am while the family guinea pig was giving birth next door. Screams of delight turned to horror when the daddy guinea pig started eating the baby guinea pigs. She dealt with all this while still holding up her end of this call. That’s hardcore. I do think there are a lot of women who do this juggle, have stories like this. I find it a kind of exhilarating part of life. It’s kind of hilarious and a bit madcap. You cry probably more of the time than you should. But it also feels like life, and I think it’s sad that a lot of blokes get curtained off from that kind of experience."

You can and you should read the whole thing here.

N.B: In a superficial takeaway I think I want to look like Annabel Crabb when I grow up. For realsies.

Public Service Announcement.

The premise is this: the story of a murder investigation and a journalist's subsequent investigation into whether the right guy was put away for it.

Why you should care is this: the story's true and it's doled out episode-by-episode. It's also awesome.

Conclusion: if you're not listening to The Serial podcast you really should be.

“Today I must be very careful, today I have left my armour at home.” 

(Jean Rhys)

"Hang on tightly, let go lightly."

(Croupier)

I Rise

I don't believe in God and I would never describe myself as a "spiritual person" because, you know, I'm not a detestable human being. And yet every so often I wonder if the universe isn't trying to tell me something or make me do something for my own good.

It happened many years ago when I was using my parents' home computer, typing some document or other. When I went to save the document, instead of the computer automatically using the first few words of the document as a suggested file name, as per the norm, the file name it came up with was Ethan Frome. That's weird, I thought at the time. What or who is Ethan Frome? Ethan Frome, it turned out, was a super famous book by Edith Wharton. Once I discovered that fact I had to read it and maaaaan it is brilliant: a perfectly crafted story I now love, love, love.

I never did figure out how the hell the thing with the computer happened but, hey, thanks universe.

What happened to me more recently is not on that scale of what-the-actual-fuck by any means but it still got me thinking that the world is looking after me. Because for some reason everywhere I go lately I seem to hear about Maya fucking Angelou.

A momentary side note/confession: for someone who loves books and studied English at university I am not very well read and I am particularly terribly versed in The Canon. I've never finished a novel by Charles Dickens, for example, or read a Jane Austen that isn't Pride and Prejudice. Even outside the world according to Harold Bloom I feel like my grasp on Important Literature is very slight. I read a lot for work purposes so when it comes to my personal reading, although I do attempt to read some books Because I Should, most of the time I read for pleasure. For these reasons it so happened I had never made my way around to Maya Angelou. Until now.

For the past few months it seems like every time I tune in to one of my favourite podcasts they're talking about Maya Angelou. Articles on Maya Angelou pop up on the various news and not-news websites I read. I hear a gorgeous line of poetry or a quote and when I try to find the author... it's Maya Angelou. Of course it is.

I'm not a complete boob: Maya Angelous died earlier this year so of course she's being talked about. It's no Ethan Frome mystery. But still, it seemed like a sign I had to go and find something to read by her, to see what all the fuss is about. It didn't take me very long to get sucked down a Maya Angelou wormhole, gorging on delightful poem after delightful poem.

Again, all I can say is: thanks universe.

I Rise
(Maya Angelou)

You may write me down in history

With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may tread me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

And the bartender’s, like, “Brian, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

Thanks to Becs for the heads up on this New Yorker totally charming take on the (still kinda funny, I'm sorry) 12 inch pianist joke.

“So a guy walks into a bar one day and he can’t believe his eyes. There, in the corner, there’s this one-foot-tall man, in a little tuxedo, playing a tiny grand piano. So the guy asks the bartender, “Where’d he come from?” And the bartender’s, like, “There’s a genie in the men’s room who grants wishes.”

You can read the whole thing here.