Game of Thrones Daily
JVL
oozey mess
The Stonewall Inn
blake kathryn
occasionally subtle
Fai_Ryy
PR's Tumblrdome
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
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art blog(derogatory)
cherry valley forever
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
Not today Justin
tumblr dot com
will byers stan first human second
🩵 avery cochrane 🩵
todays bird
$LAYYYTER
ojovivo
seen from Singapore
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@les-francophile
And then, suddenly, there's something else. When you least expect it. Suddenly there's an opportunity, an opening, a person or people you couldn't have imagined, and - elation! - it feels as though you've found the pot of gold, when you'd thought all the gilt was gone from this world forever. It's enough, for a time - maybe even for a long time - to make you forget that you were ever angry, that you ever knew what anger was at all.
Claire Messud, The Woman Upstairs.
December 24th, 9pm, Eastern Standard Time.
From here on in I shoot without a script.
See if anything comes of it Instead of my old shit
He was me when I was 14; he is still me now that I am 28. (I just have cooler glasses now.)
You guys, look at the Parisian street urchins. It's practically Les Miz.
From my 2006 thesis on Sarkozy:
"What to make of Sarkozy’s ambitious and noble goals in a political culture unequipped to handle such openness and sympathy to religion? Here is the problem of the French Catholic. Is belief in the appealing rhetoric of a charming politician the right path back from what some would deem a nation’s lost faith? Does Sarkozy’s promise for a tamer laïcité force a French Catholic to compromise one of his two sacred religions? If the French revolution and even the twentieth century demonstrate anything, it is that although the French identity can be double-croyant, there is little hope for it to practice both faiths fully – secularism and Catholicism. Sarkozy’s formule for a different future appears sumptuous, but will it leave an even worse aftertaste?" What an idiot I was. "Ambitious," yes. "Noble"? Ha.
Also, "Catholicism."
A nice cross-section of who I care about: best coworker(s), best friend (girl and guy), dead ex, cousin, love in Belgium. (Scary, you're never on FB, or you'd be here.)
Anjelica Huston for Vogue, 1971.
Done. Spirit animal.
Yes, this is my Facebook Cover Photo. Did you expect any less?
OH HI, 'member that time I shook Jon Kortajarena's hand, spoke to him in French (which he didn't understand), and then I melted ten times over, because he is the #1 sexiest man alive, ever, ever, ever? Yeah, I do, too. It was tonight.
I told Nick that it was not so hard for me to reach out to other minds and hearts as to reach out to other bodies. I told Nick that the physical is the area in which I unfold slowly, and painfully, and uncertainly, the area in which I need help to be myself, the area in which I can, as though by some law of nature, come into my own only with the passing of the weeks, and with the passing of my own fear. I do not lack imagination or energy, nor am I so far from physical sensitivity that I remain forever stranded on the high ground of my remove. But in the presence of someone else whom I hardly know (for all the variety of my love, how well did I know Nick?), I cannot - I told Nick - be even my own fantasy. I could not stop remembering things that Nick had said. I recalled how I had once woken up in the middle of the night to find him looking at me, and how he had said, very slowly, in his tone of perpetual interest, "You have such a beautiful face." Then too I recalled the way he had asked once, in the middle of love, with that boyish grin, "Do you like this?" and, before I could answer, had announced with another thrust, "I like this." I remembered equally well the various times when he had said, "Not there," or "More gently," or even "Stop. Stop for a second." Nick, I said in a voice that was broken, every life is made up of sequences and prioritites and hierarchies, and where you place someone in the sequences and priorities and hierarchies of your life can form desire, rather than the other way around. And more. Nick, I said, do you remember about the sublime being the exchange of easier for more difficult pleasures? We were speaking of emotion, but sexually, too, there is such an exchange to be negotiated. I cannot provide you with the easier kind of sexual pleasure at which you arrive when you come across your fantasy in real life. I can suggest on faith that in the physical as much as in the emotional arena, it is sometimes worth the struggle to arrive at the particualar pleasure that comes of time and profound openness, at which you cannot arrive when you work from a prototype - that pleasure which comes as the aftermath of fallen boundaries. I told Nick that it was in the sudden and unflinching radiance of feeling with and for each other that we had found each other. I told him I was worth the effort.
by Andrew Solomon, from A Stone Boat
The world is full of good-looking men, and no others have wedged their way into my soul as Nick did. How to explain him, when my desire has been formed so often by the difficulty of articulating it? He represented my opposite in many ways, though we had in common our gender and abiding curiosity and a certain measure of intelligence. Having found in Bernard and others a dilute version of myself, or an ideal I had but half-achieved, I now sought what I did NOT have, as, perhaps, men have often sought women. I found in Nick the ease of physical connection, a complete contentment in the fact of being a sexual being, an ability to reach out to the bodily fact of another. If Bernard was an experiment in domesticity, then Nick, I suppose, was an experiment in physicality. Nick lived for now, and did not tremble at the uncertainty of the future. I have supposed that the pain that came when Nick and I parted is not incommensurate with the pleasure our love might have brought; but perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps I found Nick because I needed to suffer, and knew that he would be a recipe for disaster. Perhaps his name was just another name for me to give to loss, and my grief for him just another excuse for loneliness. Perhaps the real potential for real joy would have terrified me, sent me running from the room like a crazy cat. At a certain rational level, I saw at once that Nick could not step out of himself enough to be with me, and that it was foolish and self-indulgent to imagine or hope otherwise. Perhaps it is only my own self-indulgence that keeps me from saying that dreams are always dreams, that a dream realized is in the end a dream forsaken, and that my dream of Nick was as cinematic and irrelevant as the ringing of bells at eventide ... My mother, to whom I mentioned Nick only in passing, and who carefully showed neither disapprobation nor interest in meeting him, started to ask whether I was all right, because I had grown at once so manic and so worn from the very fact of him. I told her that I had never been better, and in some sense it was true: Nick almost crowded her out of my mind. Nick went with the architecture of my new apartment. He was part of the new life I was going to have in New York. My relationship to Bernard had been like a mineral crystal formed over years and based on obscure formulae so strange that only a few dedicated scientists could chart them; but my relationship to Nick was like an explosion, in which there is no logic of any kind at all.
This is for me, but about you.
by Andrew Solomon, from A Stone Boat
Vous allez voir, je vais vous aider, vous retrouverez la voix de vos jeunes années
Rufus Wainwright, Prima Donna
I guess I found this a few years ago; it's a video of my college's mens a cappella group fromthe year after I graduated, I think, singing "Dragoste din tei." Everyone knows the song; no one knows what is said. I really believe that I was one of the last to hear about this when it was big on the internet almost a decade ago; my friend Andrew Embiricos played it for me one night at his apartment in 2005 prior to our going out, or maybe after we got back from a bar. It was so absurd, the song, but Andrew knew every word and sang along with such enthusiasm - almost as if it were a Whitney-level ballad. When he got to a line he couldn't make out, he asked me what I thought it was. He roped me in. This was Andrew. I downloaded it and listened to it probably 150 times. I've been mourning Andrew's death for about two months now, and, I guess, Whitney's death brought back some fresh feelings about Andrew. When he died, I mourned for him and for those who loved him. But in watching this video and listening again to these very silly songs that we used to blast, I am, I guess, starting to mourn for myself. The Indian summer that we dated, we were inseparable, and I remember the exhilaration I felt, heading down to his apartment, listening to "Dragoste din tei" and "Since U Been Gone" and other bubblegummy songs on the West Side Highway. Andrew exhilarated me. I think most who knew him could say that, but it doesn't change the indelible, incredibly personal memory of him I have. Through songs that millions of others "owned" as much as we did, Andrew found some way to make them touch only us. I will absolutely always remember how pleasantly cool that September evening was, and how I felt like the luckiest boy in the world to be going to see Andrew. I miss you, Andrew, and I thank you for that wonderful feeling in 2005, and the bittersweet reminder I will have with me always.
Eulogy
What is strange, digesting your death, Andrew, is that I have been doing so, in a way, since just after we drifted apart. It was in 2006, perhaps 2007, when you told me that you'd tried [drugs]. I told you that I was scared of it and didn't like it, but we weren't hanging out every day anymore, and weeks and even months were going by without spending any planned time together. Yes, I bumped into you in Chelsea, but so did everyone. Yes, we kissed hello, and our touch indicated our care for each other, but you were slipping away, and every time I saw you, that became more and more clear. The glassy look in your gaze, the flippant answers to my questions; you weren't of my world anymore, but how could I ever think that once you were?
When I began to worry about you, I put you out of my thoughts for a while. I was starting a new job in an exciting new universe, again, more yours than mine. I moved, and so did you; I didn't really know where you were, so I tried not to think about you too much.
But I watched you - how could I not? - from afar. I saw your face begin to shrink, your body change, first by the half-attractive definition of your muscles, then by the eerie protrusion of your bones. I talked to my cousin - your friend - and some mutual friends, anyone who would listen, really. Not many people wanted to play the speculation game that soon began to consume me. You never knew how it took me over. I made sure you didn't, but I guess you sort of knew. You found that mention of you in my old blog - "I spend a lot of time thinking about Andrew E-------- ... I am scared for him and I worry about his health" - and I guess a few friends of mine told you how I'd worried about you. A few close friends still can recall, almost as vividly as I can, the worst nightmare I've ever had: I had to crawl down into the depths of the earth, under Manhattan, to search for you in the flames and molten rock. You were there, dark and bewitched, and all I could do was try to drag you out. I don't remember the end, but I don't think I succeeded.
On my birthday in 2007, I broke down in hysterical tears - I was drunk, of course - dining on the sidewalk outside Mare on 8th Avenue when an acquaintance dropped in to say he'd seen you moments before in bad shape only one block away. Part of me wanted to go bang down your door and not leave until you admitted your problem; the part of me that could still think knew you wouldn't be home and wouldn't listen.
But I'd already begun the effort of my last resort. Fearing something - retribution? more distance? guilt by association? These all fall short, but any excuse would - I created an anonymous email and wrote to your mother. I told her about my suspicions, but of course she'd already seen the website you set up, a cry for help. I told her that nothing was worth anonymity, that I'd do whatever it took to get you help, that I missed the electric boy who made me feel as if the sun was shining on me alone. She answered me immediately, telling me that you rejected help, that she and your uncle and your cousin could not intervene.
About a week later, I wrote you the card, the one with the quote from Emerson: "What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us." I told you that I would always love you and would always be your friend. You answered me the day you received it; I was so surprised. You asked to get together, I think that day. And we did.
You were getting help, going to rehab, and you were leaving in less than 5 days. We hugged. You looked horrible; your teeth were just heartbreaking. But we laughed - more than I expected to - and you made fun of me, which I loved. We parted with promises to stay closer that weekend, after you got back. You emailed me the next day saying that you spoke about me in therapy; I never found out why.
When you died two weeks ago, my heart broke. I lost a lover, a friend, and someone for whom I held a candle for years. For five years. Although we weren't close, I saw you get better, start a new life, with new friends, and embark upon a career that exhilarated you. You needed exhilaration. The devil in you needed it. And this was perfect for you, a healthy and productive and fulfilling exhilaration that you got. It was great to see.
We texted, emailed, ran into each other. Every time, I felt better about you; I'm not sure how you thought of me. But there was happiness and love every time; I won't forget that, Andrew.
I reread every single email, every Facebook message. I have memorized the names of your friends and family, the dwindling few who you kept informed when you were struggling. I wrote to Dorianne and Yasmin when I heard about you; I explained that I'd written to them to try to help when you were hitting bottom, but I guess I didn't have to. In the briefest of emails, Dori told me that my emails had helped get you help back then, that my action had made an impact. I cried, and still cannot fully grasp the emotions I feel coming to understand this fact.
I could not save you from your extreme and intense life, Andrew. But I am so relieved to know I could help you with one of its most difficult peaks.
Yours will remain one of the most significant influences I have ever known. (Fitting, no?) And I will owe my confidence - the confidence that allowed me to intervene in your life - to you and our brief, close time together.
With eternal love and gratitude,
Matthew
Valentine's Day 2006: my cousin Meredith made out with Andrew, my somewhat ex. From Andrew the next day: "Mer's a good kisser, btw." I'd normally find it very strange to think I shared someone with my cousin, but Andrew, if it was going to be anyone, it was perfect that it was you. Love you, Andrew, always did.
I WITNESSED THIS AND NOW CAN DIE (There IS a Heaven on Earth and it is THIS.)
[Valentino, Andy Cohen and Anderson Cooper are in a theatre for the screening of W.E., the new movie directed by Madonna. This is the conversation that transpired in the Gaymuda Triangle.]
Andy Cohen, caressing Anderson's face, à la Valentino: You-a so lovely, a-so beautiful-a jus' wanna touch you, so pretty face so lovely vedy pretty wondafuhl.
Anderson Cooper: Ah, heh heh ... okay. So, Valentino -
Valentino: Ah-yes-a ...
Anderson Cooper: I would like to introduce you to my partner, Benjamin.
Correspondence
About 5 times in the last 2 weeks, I've told myself to sit down and write a note to my friends in Bruxelles to let them know what's going on in my life.
Can I be blamed that I don't want to recount how my uncle died, my cousin's relationship ended because of abuse and infidelity, how my work subordinate and good friend suffered an aneurysm and is only alive because I called her boyfriend concerned and he found her 9 hours later, how I broke down over my roommate who stole and threw out my things and can't learn to lock a door, how I've been working 60+ hour weeks (without my direct report), and how my dad fell off the wagon on Thanksgiving and made me embarrassed in front of friends and concerned for my mother?
No, I don't have the energy to write all of this out. In French. Right now.
cherrispryteaintsobrite:
bunnyfood:
Cat bag
Attn: Matthew.
Cattaché! Pour Madame! Parfait!!!!
