my old block. the best house in new york city. RIP pink paint job on garfield place.
Really into this picture of Juliana Hatfield and Mary Lou Lord playing at the Middle East, Cambridge, 1991.
"For a few sweet months back in the fall of 1993 at the European School of Luxembourg, a popular high school boy with long hair and a taste for grunge music turned his attention to a shy girl from a grade below who hid behind books, and was partial to flannel shirts and Doc Martens."
“‘She was timid and mystical, Ophelia-like in her black boots, but I knew her shyness concealed something quite formidable,’ recalled Mr. Sibson, an Englishman”
“’She was listening to Bjork before anyone else was,’ Mr. Sibson said.”
"said her sister, Elisabeth van Lawick van Pabst-Koch."
"By this time, she was dividing her time between Paris and New York, swirling through the fashion world creating art and designing sets."
"Ms. Koch, always ready to travel whenever the occasion presented itself, instead suggested they meet in Sarajevo in June and then make the trek to a birthday party a friend was giving in Puglia, Italy."
"They rented a stone hut called a trullo amid olive groves and the foxes. They drank wine under the stars."
"There was no ring, but the stars and the moon were out. So were the animals and the dragonflies."
"Her mother, Disja Koch-ter Kuile, who gives art lessons, and her father, Robert B. Koch, a retired steel industry executive"
"an elaborate surprise visit arranged by Mr. Sibson and Ms. van Lawick van Pabst-Koch."
“‘I had no sense of Atlanta,’ he said. ‘I would watch CNN and see these women with big hair, and think wistfully, “That’s where Anne is, and she seems nothing like those big-haired women.”’”
"He knocked on the door, only to have it swing open to reveal Mr. Koch, also holding a heart-shaped balloon"
"Ms. Koch’s dog, Sir William Sugarplum"
"Ms. Koch’s sister, who is a milliner in Beijing"
"The word ‘starling’ holds multiple meanings for the couple, who believe they are creatures from the stars."
"The morning after the wedding, the couple took their respective clans to that Southern icon, the Waffle House. ‘It was not my kind of food,’ confessed the groom’s mother, Ruth Harrison Sibson-Windsor, who was making her first trip to the United States from Canterbury, England. ‘But the service was friendly.’"
“’Our lives will be our honeymoon.’”
What’s missing is the eyeballs
in each of us, but it doesn’t matter
because you’ve got the bucks, the bucks, the bucks.
You let me touch them, fondle the green faces
lick at their numbers and it lets you be
my ‘Daddy! ’ ‘Daddy! ’ and though I fought all alone
with molesters and crooks, I knew your money
would save me, your courage, your ‘I’ve had
considerable experience as a soldier…
fighting to win millions for myself, it’s true.
But I did win, ’ and me praying for ‘our men out there’
just made it okay to be an orphan whose blood was no one’s,
whose curls were hung up on a wire machine and electrified,
while you built and unbuilt intrigues called nations,
and did in the bad ones, always, always,
and always came at my perils, the black Christs of childhood,
always came when my heart stood naked in the street
and they threw apples at it or twelve-day-old-dead-fish.
'Daddy! ' 'Daddy, ' we all won that war,
when you sang me the money songs
Annie, Annie you sang
and I knew you drove a pure gold car
and put diamonds in you coke
for the crunchy sound, the adorable sound
and the moon too was in your portfolio,
as well as the ocean with its sleepy dead.
And I was always brave, wasn’t I?
I never bled?
I never saw a man expose himself.
I never saw a drunkard in his blubber.
I never let lightning go in one car and out the other.
And all the men out there were never to come.
Never, like a deluge, to swim over my breasts
and lay their lamps in my insides.
Just me and my ‘Daddy’
and his tempestuous bucks
rolling in them like corn flakes
and only the bad ones died.
But I died yesterday,
'Daddy, ' I died,
swallowing the Nazi-Jap animal
and it won’t get out
it keeps knocking at my eyes,
my big orphan eyes,
kicking! Until eyeballs pop out
and even my dog puts up his four feet
and lets go
of his military secret
with his big red tongue
flying up and down
like yours should have
as we board our velvet train.
kate eichhorn, the archival turn in feminism: outrage in order (via karaj)
give me this book now.