"What I mean is, where before I would have striven to grip the meaning of what you were saying, and would have fretted over whether what I understood and what you meant were the same, now I just listen. I’m resigned to the effect of this sort of abyss that swallows your words and spits them out on my monitor and vice versa. It’s almost like sending each other an endless series of inkblots. But that understates my interest in what gets said. As you’ve surely noticed, I hang on every word you say. And I freak out every now and then and have to hear your voice or see you. That’s when I’m pissed off at the abyss and I need to narrow it. But one thing I hear every time you say or write anything to me is: ‘I want you to hear this.’ And it’s louder or softer in proportion to how much zeal or effort is apparent in what you say. So that’s how I get past the contradictions (or swallow them). I’m not reading for sincerity, I’m reading for what went into writing or saying it. Because it seems profound to me that a person with such bleak views as you could ever think, ‘I want you to hear this.’"
There has been a Bunuel (you’re not going to see the tilde, so just chillax) fest going on at BAM for the past couple of weeks.
Years ago — when I first moved to NYC? — I saw That Obscure Object of Desire at Lincoln Plaza and it really stuck with me. Not just the surrealism, but also the sense that this was the era from which I sprung. At once familiar and foreign.
My two takeaways from the film are: 1) the totally inexplicable replacement of the lead actress with another lead actress in the middle of a scene — something that makes me remember, I really need to get around to rereading Two Serious Ladies again, dammit — and 2) car bomb out of nowhere. The very 70s, darkly funny, deadly serious, sense of the political being the personal and that you might as well do a bump because ETA could off you at any moment.
I missed re-seeing that one on the big screen but caught The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie last night.
I can’t really put into words how stupidly appropriate it was for me to see this film, at this exact moment, but it was. If I knew, I’d be off writing my expository essay on identity politics, Latin America, the man with a creek running through his house, “that caucasian look” recreated in the #selfie the Brazilian guy who rejected me liked, Tinder, cousin Pedro, “I love New Orleans…except for the corruption of course,” “The best run city in South America,” and all this other shit I’ve alluded to in previous posts.
Instead I am here, drinking coffee at 4:54pm on a Sunday instead of cracking open a bottle of wine, looking out at the East River, sneezing because I refuse to vacuum, washing my whites, defrosting homemade meatballs, wondering if I should try to hit another Bunuel tonight, wondering why the guy who sat one seat away from me disappeared into the night so quickly, wondering why Charos from Uzbekistan went from approving of my breakup to disapproving over the course of one wax.
Brazilian, of course.
The guest room is actually the master bedroom. Shakespearean mixups ensue!
Getting trolled by a Brazilian man who “liked” your selfie at 2am.
Congratulations! You can carry on entire conversations in emojis. Go forth and teach others. Are You Fluent in Emoji? - NYTimes.com