I used to think I had friends, but I’m beginning to wonder what that means. I think maybe my heart is broken. It’s a pressure, a strange pulling. My body seems separate from “me,” somehow, like a costume. In the middle of a conversation, I sometimes wonder who the other person is talking to.
In 2010, Joni Mitchell said she was suffering from a debilitating illness that had confined to her home, and wrecked her life. She’s said it’s “weird, incurable disease that seems it’s from outer space.” Her illness led to a recent hospitalization, which raised some questions about exactly what kind of monster the songstress is dealing with.
The 1928 novel Orlando is as much a love letter to literature as it is to a human being. It speaks passionately to those of us addicted to words, who lock ourselves away in quiet rooms and sink into different worlds, shutting off our external senses to sharpen our internal ones.
It’s an insanely hard matter to exist. First, of course, we have to make sure our basic needs are met, which is a chore in itself. The problem with having them met is that it is only briefly satisfying for us. The hunger that’s hard to feed and the rumbling that seems impossible to quiet is the pull of the dread of death and a swallowing ache of loneliness.
This disorienting pain is where Don Hertzfeldt’s films live.
Pain is usually an alarm that something is wrong, but sometimes both emotional and physical pain is something you have to willingly put yourself through in order to feel better.
Ken Cosgrove has in his reach the perfect setup for an aspiring author: thanks to his marriage situation, he could take of advantage of all the money and time needed to hammer out his first novel. He only toys with this dream briefly, though, this glimmering life not lived, before going back to tracing the same old circles with his hours, this time fueled by revenge. Is that all there is?
It’s intentionally difficult to gauge when It Follows is supposed to be set. Everything has a vintagy feel. The old televisions, cars, and black-and-white movies make it seem like a hipster’s dream. A driving 80’s horror-synth soundtrack (by Rich Vreeland of Disasterpeace) follows the characters as they live a sleepy life in an run-down suburb of the further disintegrating Detroit, and their lives are accented by stylistic beauty of a curated mix of relics from different decades. The only nod to the “present” exists both in the future and the past: a pink kindle-iphone type device that looks like a 1960s pink clamshell compact. It’s a brilliant touch that had me craving it immediately and hating that it didn’t actually exist.
I get a lot of great, stimulating questions and observations on my Ask.fm. I often quickly reply, sometimes typing out long responses on my phone. It’s great, but I’ve decided to try fleshing out my answers a little more into an advice column of sorts. If you want to see your question here, just send it to ask.fm/lynncinnamon. QUESTION: Lately, i have developed a kind of a destructive obsession with being utterly objective. I change my mind a lot i… Read more »
This iconic December 12, 1970 photo of Elvis Presley and Richard Nixon is surreal, but the story behind the meeting is even stranger. By the 70s things were unravelling for Elvis. He was already deep into a deadly drug addiction, and was struggling with his place in the world he had once been on top of. Elvis seemed to be in a bit of a tailspin when he loaded up his gun and decided to do some rare private traveling.
The wind stung him. It reminded Oliver of long nights playing by the lake, the sand whipped into his flesh by the breeze. His muscles ached from swimming and running. It had felt perfectly alright to be alive then. The monotony and dread of other days was forgotten, blended into a past unreachable in this touchable present.