Mrs. Dalloway's Coffee Break

Some years ago, I wrote a piece on this blog on my secretly harbored love for country music in general, and Dolly Parton in particular.  After the release of Beyoncé’s Cowboy Carter last Friday, I revisited what I had written so that I wouldn’t repeat myself any more than is my signature repetitive streak.  Beyoncé hails herself the Queen, and why not? For she is the most, the wildest while also the most controlled, and the most extravagant popular singer in the world today. When she releases new music, the world stops. As it did this time, too. She is the most important artist right now to voice her opinions on any given topic, because she is widely revered and extensively heard. You cannot ignore Beyoncé if you tried. She doesn’t have powerful friends in high places; she is the place of power incarnate, and what she has already done, her body of work, will not be equaled or ignored, ever. No one can erase her or take her place. She has mythologized her persona and her famil...

How can one communicate experience one may talk about it for however long Not the same fire becoming water or woman a demon transmogrification emotions one makes them disappear a disappearing cloak the mouth a line Vertebrae after vertebrae staring at nothing eating these nine inch nails joyless drunkard Or maybe I was laughing Munchausen by proxy with horror in my colorless eyes hope like the flicker of pink light in the eye right before it bursts But my eyes are fine What I have is this torrential regret or no regrets at all just a sec while I calibrate  punitive damages you know no regrets but my misdemeanors became this enormous planet of involuntary twitching performance anxiety but I don’t suffer from either see 02:37 03:11 04:54 I'm looking for Mr. Goodbar I become the kid with the  comic book tattoo brain I feel no pain I have everything to gain from these shit odds Since when you became a betting man? I search for validation youth Happiness I had some youth once and I...

I was standing at the counter of my local record store, basically monopolizing the entire table as well as the attention of my favorite salesperson. He is my peer and has manned the counter for as long as I have been shopping there, so we practically have the same profession. He also has the whole High Fidelity-Rob Gordon-Championship Vinyl Owner -vibe about him, without the superiority complex or the raging fits, that I know of, and since Nick Hornby’s modern classic is one of my favorite books, I always look for signs that the story in the book is all true, and therefore notice such things. I had come down to check out birthday gift possibilities for my girl Roberts, and let’s face it, when at a record store, you don’t just get the one record and leave. So, the man was doing his best to help me out. “So, I mean what do you have in CD format?” “Oh, I have a bunch of stuff here, in the Used section. Let’s see now.” I waited, all my stuff spread across the counter, whi...

Before having Rocketman recommended to me by a workmate who had seen it at a screening for the press and loved it dearly and told me she thought I would, too, I mostly associated Elton John with my sister. When I was little, she would make these mixtapes for me from whatever songs were big hits just then mixed with some classics, using special Japanese cassette tapes, pink and transparent and adorable. I would examine the hand-written song lists carefully in my Lanzarote novelty fringe top, wearing my neon-colored shades bought from the only punk shop in town, while listening to the tapes over and over in my silver boombox. I knew Crocodile Rock like the back of my hand, because it was on one of those tapes, a special Summer Mix tape. I remember staying at my sister’s place and listening to her vinyl copy of Elton John’s Greatest Hits, the blue-tinted album with the man in his Sacrifice look on the cover I think every teenager and young adult back then had in their collection. I k...

How things are The window is cracked open my bedroom window Snow cracks under there cracking and cracks inside my tiny pockets I am holding my breath until things are right with Alice But they can never be right again We have drifted too far apart, you know Is what she says in her head so loud the streets echo with the indifference It’s not like we are best pals or ever were But Alice, I want to say, you lie I crumple up in bed and let breath leave me Exhale is so much easier than inhale in this freezing winter temperature And wait for my baby to at least hold my hand Because I am sad and it’s what you do But my baby is busy and has to leave for work I peel a tangerine and eat it Put on a Kurt Vile record to crowd her out Write in my journal, make a shopping list Think of groceries and vacuuming and sing along to Snowflakes Are Dancing Still Alice remains silent no matter how much sub-zero I force down on her She is huddled on the bed sta...

One day, the river decided she was sick of running, so she curled up and turned into a lake. Wow, that’s incredible, I marveled, impressed. Oh, it’s nothing, she replied, this isn’t the first time I have done it. I miss her, I said. She took that photo of me by a lake. I had long hair then. I have short hair now. And who was the girl with the long hair? she asked. I don’t know. A quiet, nice girl. A pushover, really. She hated that about herself. I don’t think she was a pushover. A bit insecure, perhaps. I said nothing to this. Matkalla kotiin poikkesin leipomoon ostamaan reikäleivän ja rakastamiani pieniä suklaakakkusia. Monesti naisella, joka palveli minua, oli luppoaikaa, ja jutustelimme. Tänään hän oli kiireinen. Tein ostokseni joutuisasti, ja poistuin sivummalle täyttämään reppua. Kaiketi nainen oli kuullut uutisen. Lähtiessäni myymälästä olin näkevinäni Hendersonit kaukana järvenselällä astelemassa pitkin luistinrataa, mutta tiesin ettei se...

Mirabelle felt her head expand with air, as the laughter, the hysterics, made way to deep embarrassment that was not without a spiteful undertone. She hadn’t been guilty of stealing Miriam’s precious necklace, no, Mamie had lost the heavy silver and green thing all by herself in a drunken stupor on the night of her big opening. But the waiter had given it to Miri, saying he seemed to remember the beautiful woman in their group wearing it when they were last there, as if Mirabelle did not fit into that category and wasn’t beautiful at all, and that comment, somehow, paired with Mamie’s rude commentary on the blue collar workers and never ever wanting to sink so low as to have a job as a waitress, in total disregard of Miri belonging to that exact class and in fact doing exactly that for a living, despite her writing habit, oh, Mamie made her feel like a rank dilettante, a half-assed amateur, an embarrassing country sibling not to be taken seriously at all, and all that eye-rolling to ...