Not sure who is a crossword solver here but my brother wrote tomorrow’s (Wednesday 12/3) NY Times puzzle. So if you take a swing at it, let me know how you do!
I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,
for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
“Sit down and have a drink” he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. “You have SARDINES in it.”
“Yes, it needed something there.”
“Oh.” I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. “Where’s SARDINES?”
All that’s left is just
letters, “It was too much,” Mike says.
But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven’t mentioned
orange yet. It’s twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike’s painting, called SARDINES.
— Frank O’Hara, “Why I Am Not a Painter”
I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,
for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
“Sit down and have a drink” he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. “You have SARDINES in it.”
“Yes, it needed something there.”
“Oh.” I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. “Where’s SARDINES?”
All that’s left is just
letters, “It was too much,” Mike says.
But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven’t mentioned
orange yet. It’s twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike’s painting, called SARDINES.
Brooklyn, NY
(via kottke.org)
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There are a million ways to live your life, but one choice is to do it with gratitude.
Laura Dern Has the Spirit of Seventies Cinema | The New Yorker
Chicago, IL
Chicago, IL
Chicago, IL
Brooklyn, NY
Both of their names are misspelled: we spell our name Barocas, not Barokas, and my grandmother’s name was Flora Gatteño (or Gattegno, it’s not quite clear).
New York City, 1916
Fired up a /now page: zachbarocas.com/now
Manhattan, NYC
New York City
New York City
“Wonder is the beginning of awe. Awe is the beginning of wisdom.” — Abraham Joshua Heschel
Brooklyn, NY
Brooklyn NY, 2017
Brooklyn, NY
Rivka Galchen on Raymond Carver’s “Elephant” | The New Yorker
Reminds me what a strange and beautiful story “Elephant” is, how powerful Carver’s late work is (e.g. “Errand,” and “Cathedral”). I’ll have to go back and read those stories again.