This is the world we wanted.
All who would have seen us dead
are dead. I hear the witch’s cry
break in the moonlight through a sheet
of sugar: God rewards.
Her tongue shrivels into gas…
Now, far from women’s arms
and memory of women, in our father’s hut
we sleep, are never hungry.
Why do I not forget?
My father bars the door, bars harm
from this house, and it is years.
No one remembers. Even you, my brother,
summer afternoons you look at me as though
you meant to leave,
as though it never happened.
But I killed for you. I see armed firs,
the spires of that gleaming kiln—
Nights I turn to you to hold me
but you are not there.
Am I alone? Spies
hiss in the stillness, Hansel,
we are there still and it is real, real,
that black forest and the fire in earnest.
I will meet you again in the future. It will be 100 years from now. We will be evolved. We will be larger. We will be gentle with each other. When I try to touch your hand, my hand will feel like water. Your hand will feel like a fish. We will be evolved in different directions. We will be so gentle and evolved we won’t even be able to lift our glasses to our mouths. We will just sit in a bar, looking at the glasses, and being incredibly gentle with each other. You will gently slap my face. I will gently say something cruel. We will gently torture each other, not saying any of the things we’ve been thinking for the last 100 years.
We will not say, ‘I’ve missed you,’ or, ‘You look good,’ or, ‘I think I’ve made a terrible mistake.’
We will be too futuristic to say those things.
There will be mobile phones made of water and seeds, 1 millimetre in diameter.
There will be children that look like shrivelled dogs.
Every thing ever will have a slot to put money in, and when you put money in the slot the thing will vibrate.
There will be tinfoil, inflatable shoes, and holographic statues of the cast of Friends.
Everything will be okay.
The sun will be burnt out—it will be like a black floating acorn—and it will be dark in the bar, and I won’t be able to see if you are crying.
This is the album I put on when I have a shitload of work I’d rather poke my own eyes out than do. And the work gets done.
Jenny kissed me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in:
Say I’m weary, say I’m sad,
Say that health and wealth have missed me,
Say I’m growing old, but add,
Jenny kissed me.
I wouldn’t say it was that unexpected, since I had just selected the “Quit” command from the File menu.
n. the smallest measurable unit of human connection, typically exchanged between passing strangers—a flirtatious glance, a sympathetic nod, a shared laugh about some odd coincidence—moments that are fleeting and random but still contain powerful emotional nutrients that can alleviate the symptoms of feeling alone.
Craig Finn, you have to stop being so cute. Seriously, cut it out.
(photo for Pitchfork by Mark Seliger)
I never used the damn thing, and Mike has fancy video equipment with an optional iOS adjunct, so now it’s his.
Next month I’ll be replacing it with an 11-inch MacBook Air.
I will not be writing a 1,500-word blog post about this.
You’re welcome.