Summer in the Bronx lasts forever, and it is like this: naked bodies that are at once child-skinny and child-swollen sprinting through spray-capped fire hydrants, stained popsicle sticks in neat piles on the sidewalk, asphalt that remembers the warm smell of rain long after it storms.
I hadn’t known the story of how Anna’s life had played out; how she had ended up working in the arts and how she had ended up becoming the Anna that I knew. I always saw her as having things figured out.
In “Who Is America?” Baron Cohen’s goal is no longer to illuminate the fact that people have racist, xenophobic thoughts, but to see just how far those views will go and the horrible things they will guide them to do.
I ask my soul, “Take care of this, right now!” / But it’s silent. / It acts of its own accord: / An echo gasp, / From stupid-little-mundane things / That cry you out.
There are poets and there are composers. In a way, it’s simply about their strategies for producing art and relationship to art making. In another way, it’s an inherent, spiritual quality—housed somewhere between the body and the note.
I do not practice with a metronome because I want to become a better drummer. I practice with a metronome to practice focusing. To practice pretending that the world is objective. To meditate.
