VIRGIL’S AENEID

When I was at boarding school, I spent three years translating the first four books of Virgil’s Aeneid from Latin to English. This epic poem was written between 29 and 19BC and recounts the tale of Aeneas, a Trojan warrior who travelled to Italy and founded Rome. Of course, my favourite was Book IV, which recounts the love affair between Dido, the Queen of Carthage and Aeneas.

The New Yorker has an interesting piece on The Aeneid, written by classics scholar and professor Daniel Mendelsohn.

I ♥ studying the classics and attending their theatrical performances.

Why you should read The Aeneid.

 

Tuesday
November 27, 2018
FILED | Uncategorized

LOVE IN THE TIME OF CHOLERA

Solange ♥

♥ Carrie Mae Weems ♥

I Want You to Remember

photograph | Joan Lyons

Monday
November 26, 2018
FILED | Love in The Time of Cholera

WHO IS CHARLOTTE CULOT?

A magnificent Belgian artist whose exhibition, White + Beige @HUIT, in Laguna Beach will remain through January 17th.

Wednesday
November 21, 2018
FILED | Charlotte Culot

WRITING | MARGUERITE DURAS

Precious vignettes and scattered thoughts on the art of writing, from a fascinating mind.
Monday
November 19, 2018
FILED | Marguerite Duras

MY BRILLIANT FRIEND | ELENA FERRANTE

Premiering tonight on HBO!

Sunday
November 18, 2018
FILED | Uncategorized

SUNDAYS IN NEW YORK

Sunday
November 18, 2018
FILED | NYC, Street Photography

♥

Thursday
November 15, 2018
FILED | MAD Music, Pomplamoose

GOODBYE, AUTUMN IN NEW YORK

Wednesday
November 14, 2018
FILED | NYC

HILMA AF KLINT

The Hilma af Klint exhibition at The Guggenheim is spectacular. Go!

Wednesday
November 14, 2018
FILED | Art

PLUTO SHITS ON THE UNIVERSE

Today, I broke your solar system. Oops.

My bad. Your graph said I was supposed

to make a nice little loop around the sun.

 

Naw.

 

I chaos like a motherfucker. Ain’t no one can

chart me. All the other planets, they think

I’m annoying. They think I’m an escaped

moon, running free.

 

Fuck your moon. Fuck your solar system.

Fuck your time. Your year? Your year ain’t

shit but a day to me. I could spend your

whole year turning the winds in my bed. Thinking

about rings and how Jupiter should just pussy

on up and marry me by now. Your day?

 

That’s an asswipe. A sniffle. Your whole day

is barely the start of my sunset.

 

My name means hell, bitch. I am hell, bitch. All the cold

you have yet to feel. Chaos like a motherfucker.

And you tried to order me. Called me ninth.

Somewhere in the mess of graphs and math and compass

you tried to make me follow rules. Rules? Fuck your

rules. Neptune, that bitch slow. And I deserve all the sun

I can get, and all the blue-gold sky I want around me.

 

It is February 7th, 1979 and my skin is more

copper than any sky will ever be. More metal.

Neptune is bitch-sobbing in my rearview,

and I got my running shoes on and all this sky that’s all mine.

 

Fuck your order. Fuck your time. I realigned the cosmos.

I chaosed all the hell you have yet to feel. Now all your kids

in the classrooms, they confused. All their clocks:

wrong. They don’t even know what the fuck to do.

They gotta memorize new songs and shit. And the other

planets, I fucked their orbits. I shook the sky. Chaos like

a motherfucker.

 

It is February 7th, 1979. The sky is blue-gold:

the freedom of possibility.

 

Today, I broke your solar system. Oops. My bad.

♦

Fatimah Asghar, 2015

Juana Olga Barrios | Domus, 2018

 

Tuesday
November 13, 2018
FILED | Domus 2018, Poetry

WARHOL @WHITNEY

Jam-packed, but worth the madness.

Monday
November 12, 2018
FILED | Andy Warhol

CAN’T AND WON’T | LYDIA DAVIS

“She is bending over her child. She can’t leave her. The child is laid out in state on a table. She wants to take one more photograph of the child, probably the last. In life, the child would never sit still for a photograph. She says to herself, “I’m going to get the camera,” as if saying to the child, “Don’t move.”

♦

“The first New Year after they died felt like another betrayal — we were leaving behind the last year in which they had lived, a year they had known, and starting on a year that they would never experience. There was also some confusion in my mind, in the months afterwards. It was not that I thought she was still alive. But at the same time I couldn’t believe that she was actually gone. Suddenly the choice wasn’t so simple: either alive or not alive. It was as though not being alive did not have to mean she was dead, as though there were some third possibility.”

♦

“That fall, after the summer when they both died, she and my father, there was a point when I wanted to say to them, All right, you have died, I know that, and you’ve been dead for a while, we have all absorbed this and we’ve explored the feelings we had at first, in reaction to it, surprising feelings, some of them, and the feelings we’re having now that a few months have gone by— but now it’s time for you to come back. You have been away long enough.”

Monday
November 12, 2018
FILED | MAD Reads
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