Charlie, last night. “I WOULD PREFER NOT TO.”
It was a bad week on the heels of a bad month. If you are reading this in real time I hardly have to tell you about it, but in case you aren’t: Gaza, Ukraine, Ebola, Michael Brown, Robin Williams, Ferguson, Ferguson, Ferguson—what am I missing? Probably a lot. Anyway, there was all of this, and then suddenly the lamp situation in my dining room became untenable.
On stress-nesting, at The Billfold.
Very few of my tattoos are sui generis. The sum of them, however, is me. I regret none. Of course, there is still some time to feel differently. For now, what I rue most days is not what I’ve put on my skin, but what I’ve put on the Internet. Cached, reblogged, and saved by others, the photos of my tattoos will stick around after I’m gone, while the tattoos themselves will perish when I do. Sometimes I wish I could disappear my online presence altogether when I die—but I can’t, so instead I daydream about cremation, about the way my old skin will burn up like a diary. — Vogue Daily | Sarah Nicole Prickett, “A Life In Pictures” (via Evie)
Kimball House, last night. If you have the opportunity to join anything that could be described as “a coven,” I recommend it.
No matter how iconic she became, Joplin was always judged as a woman: audiences embraced her talent but never forgave her for using it. Jagger and Lennon were met backstage by adoring fans willing to do anything for their company, but while Joplin had her fun, Echols describes a scene that typifies her frequent desolation: after acing her New York debut, at the Anderson Theater, Joplin found herself alone as her bandmates in Big Brother and the Holding Company went off to party. She wandered to a dive bar, where a journalist approached her; as she complained to him about the guys in the group, he “fantasized shutting her up with the ultimate put-down: ‘You forget you have acne.’” — The Believer | Alexandra Molotkow, “Without You I’m Nothing”
Over at Matter, I have a little piece about how stupidly much I love my dog but how my dog is not my baby and definitely not my “furbaby.” The illustration by Tim Enthoven is fantastic (and, for the record, not an accurate portrayal of Joe, Charlie, or myself—though for some reason Joe is most interested in distancing himself from the Crocs, less from the mega-short-shorts).
Front porch, Saturday night.
I used to believe that hurting would make you more alive to the hurting of others. I used to believe in feeling bad because somebody else did. Now I’m not so sure of either. I know that being in the hospital made me selfish. Getting surgeries made me think mainly about whether I’d have to get another one. When bad things happened to other people, I imagined them happening to me. I didn’t know if this was empathy or theft. — The Believer | Leslie Jamison, “The Empathy Exams”
Rebecca Mock, “Nothing To Do In This Heat But Sleep” (via)
Rachael & Charlie.
Last night was so fun and Brooke Hatfield is like a Flannery-level goddess and if you’re at the Atlanta Zine Fest this weekend you should get yourself one of these beauts. Art by Natalie Nelson and Emily Wallace and Alvin Diec and so many other wonderful humans!
The Oxford American | Best of Eyes on the South - Walker Pickering
Charlie and I both really liked Maud Newton’s Harper’s essay about genealogy. Be fancy and buy a print copy and read it yourself! Or wait and pray that it appears online sometime in the future. Maud is writing a book about the same subject and I’m super excited for that, too. (Charlie will probably listen on tape, as that’s a lot of pages to turn for somebuddy without opposable thumbs.)
It’s a really personal thing. It feels really important. Not that I’m important, but it’s a real kindness to people and it’s something that’s easy for me to do and not easy for them to do, and I’m happy to be able to provide it. I almost feel guilty charging for it, and I have to get used to that. I’ve never been a business before, so that’s a hard one for me. — For the third installment of Can’t Take It With You I talked with Cecily Hintzen, a onetime high-school counselor turned pathology lab administrator who’s now pursuing memorial planning as a second-act career. I heard about Cecily through David Greenwald, who I’ve known online through music-writing circles for a while—she’s his mother-in-law! He read about CTIWY and thought she’d be good for me to talk with, and he was right. If you know someone whose work—or just general existence, really—intersects with death and money in some unexpected or underexplored way, I’d love to hear from you, too.
It’s hard to overemphasize the passivity of tubing. It is sloth ingeniously disguised as adventure. Though you are outside, you may as well be in your living room watching television. The tube forces you into a nearly horizontal recline, a posture easily mistakable for someone taking a nap. Nature rolls effortlessly by, and in response you alternately breathe and eat. You float downriver for about five hours, gauging the length of the trip only by the emptiness of the ice chest. This indolence is broken up by a minimum of functional paddling: to the cooler (which quickly becomes the most important member of the expedition) or courteously downriver when nature calls. You try to keep your distance from the convoys of high-school tubers, who tend to float in circular formations, like threatened wagon trains, around stashes of illegal beer. Occasionally you wave, with veiled condescension, to a fleet of passing canoers, trapped in their aluminum hotboxes and actively assaulting the river with oars. — The Oxford American | Sam Anderson, “Dixie Zen”