All the News That's Fit to Print
I'd love to be one who reads the New York Times on a regular basis. But the fact remains, I can't work the newspaper.
Basically, what I mean is that all of the intricate folding it requires, the scissoring hands, the spine which ends up against my nose during a particularly intense yogic bending ritual necessary to get me from Art to Dance in the Arts and Leisure section, and the inevitable inner-section-drop-off which happens when I turn my attention away from the newspaper for a second... all of that can kind of stress me out.
After an attempt at really reading it, spending hours meticulously paying intense attention, following the varying trains of thought in the Op-Eds and the incredible vocabulary in the Book Review, I find that I have folded things backwards and forwards, inside and out, and look down to find the Travel section mysteriously resembling a lopsided paper crane.
And I'm shit at origami.
But, honestly, I do like the Sunday Times. I always flip through it wanting to underline the words I've never seen before so that I can create lists of these lyrical bits, write them out phonetically, and practice using them in sentences in front of the mirror. Bits like "belle epoque," "Manichean," or the incredibly sexy "dialectical prestidigitation." Say that out loud, it'll give you shivers.
Dialectical prestidigitation
And the word that I could see Leigh using in some luscious, salacious story.... vulpine. I don't know how she'd use it, but she would.
And in between trying to be ever-so-studious, reading up on the increasingly "porous" nature of North Korea's borders, I come across a short article on, of all things, loving the imperfect male. And not in a "We All Have Faults: How to Love the Faults" kind of way... but in an "I want to lie down for men with crooked noses" kind of way.
Perfect. Screw North Korea. There's an article about BOYS!!
And, even more delightful... one such gorgeously grizzled and imperfect morsel pictured in this article's accompanying photo spread (chock-a-block full of sultry black and white shots of actors I adore) is a little photo, no more than an afterthought perhaps, of Kris Kristofferson.
I don't know if you know this, but I've always had a crush on Kristofferson.
And another word of praise for the fantastic woman who wrote this article... she describes Jeremy Irons (one of my other boyfriends) as a "wreck of the Hesperus." Fantastic.
I'm off to bed, friends. May you dream like crazy of Kris's achingly lovely beard and hands.
Love.
Basically, what I mean is that all of the intricate folding it requires, the scissoring hands, the spine which ends up against my nose during a particularly intense yogic bending ritual necessary to get me from Art to Dance in the Arts and Leisure section, and the inevitable inner-section-drop-off which happens when I turn my attention away from the newspaper for a second... all of that can kind of stress me out.
After an attempt at really reading it, spending hours meticulously paying intense attention, following the varying trains of thought in the Op-Eds and the incredible vocabulary in the Book Review, I find that I have folded things backwards and forwards, inside and out, and look down to find the Travel section mysteriously resembling a lopsided paper crane.
And I'm shit at origami.
But, honestly, I do like the Sunday Times. I always flip through it wanting to underline the words I've never seen before so that I can create lists of these lyrical bits, write them out phonetically, and practice using them in sentences in front of the mirror. Bits like "belle epoque," "Manichean," or the incredibly sexy "dialectical prestidigitation." Say that out loud, it'll give you shivers.
Dialectical prestidigitation
And the word that I could see Leigh using in some luscious, salacious story.... vulpine. I don't know how she'd use it, but she would.
And in between trying to be ever-so-studious, reading up on the increasingly "porous" nature of North Korea's borders, I come across a short article on, of all things, loving the imperfect male. And not in a "We All Have Faults: How to Love the Faults" kind of way... but in an "I want to lie down for men with crooked noses" kind of way.
Perfect. Screw North Korea. There's an article about BOYS!!
And, even more delightful... one such gorgeously grizzled and imperfect morsel pictured in this article's accompanying photo spread (chock-a-block full of sultry black and white shots of actors I adore) is a little photo, no more than an afterthought perhaps, of Kris Kristofferson.
I don't know if you know this, but I've always had a crush on Kristofferson.
And another word of praise for the fantastic woman who wrote this article... she describes Jeremy Irons (one of my other boyfriends) as a "wreck of the Hesperus." Fantastic.
I'm off to bed, friends. May you dream like crazy of Kris's achingly lovely beard and hands.
Love.