I don't mention pieces other people have published in The New Yorker and that's fucked up. I have to get over whatever that hang-up is. In that spirit, I recommend a poem by Sharon Olds on page 77 of this week's issue called "Her Creed." It isn't as metrically tight or sonic as I like my poetry, but I love how it deals with parenthood and death with a minimum of sentiment and without a single predictable sentence. What preferences I've heard from my poet friends lead to me to believe I am not "supposed to" like Olds, but fuck that shit. I think she rules (when she rules, which is very often when her kids are involved). There was also a great poem by Galway Kinnell, about his son, a few weeks ago. Maybe these things are linkable. I don't know.
The magazine has introduced a weekly feature called "Critic's Notebook" in the Goings On About Town section. This week, I use my slot to encourage everyone in the area to go see We Jam Econo at Lincoln Center tomorrow night. The first five minutes are the saddest five minutes of any music movie I've ever seen.
And in the category of getting over things, or not acting cool, I cannot lie: Being one of the three or four people who "played" during "Anthrax" at the Gang of Four's Tribeca Grand show (Gill held the guitar out to us during the second noise break, democratically) was one of those Chewbacca's-phone-number/Prince-teaches-me-"Let's Work"/seeing-Reggie-Jackson-style dream moments. I don't care if he was tired and did it out of exhaustion, or if there is something inherently icky about thinking you have something to do with something you have nothing to do with—I am never washing those fingertips. (Note to self: Find other way to remember this moment.)
Incredibly sorry to hear about Kylie. May she beat this disease as swiftly and decisively as she beats her competition.Posted by Sasha at May 23, 2005 02:35 PM | TrackBack