Eddie Izzard - shopping at Mac store in Soho
New York City - May 14, 2014
When I was a kid I saw his HBO special. I watched it so many times I still know most of the words. It was the first time I saw a man dressed feminine, be funny, and not have women as a punch line. He didn’t slump out in front of the stage embarrassed by his clothing, he came out perfectly happy, hoping around, and didn’t do some silly feminine voice for laughs, he just used his voice, he wore his clothes, spoke about social injustice, and he was fucking funny. It was nice to watch a comedian and not be the fucking punch line or a flattened stereotype for laughs.
Can I please just die? Living in this skin is too hard.
I say this is a wild dream - but it is this dream I want to realize. Life and literature combined, love the dynamo, you with your chameleon’s soul giving me a thousand loves, being anchored always in no matter what storm, home wherever we are. In the mornings, continuing where we left off. Resurrection after resurrection. You asserting yourself, getting the rich varied life you desire; and the more you assert yourself the more you want me, need me. Your voice getting hoarser, deeper, your eyes blacker, your blood thicker, your body fuller. A voluptuous servility and tyrannical necessity. More cruel now than before - consciously, willfully cruel. The insatiable delight of experience.
—Henry Miller, in a letter to Anais Nin (via honeyforthehomeless)
Stop acting like your world is over. No matter how much you are hurting, the world isn’t over. Tomorrow will still come. The sun will still rise and the new day will always provide new opportunities. So don’t just sit there and wallow in your sadness. Get up and explore. Learn new things, meet new people, just goddamn do things. Life is beautiful, every day is a gift. Tomorrow will always come and you should be alive to see it.
So what did Amalfitano’s students learn? They learned to recite aloud. They memorized the two or three poems that they loved most in order to remember them and recite them at the proper times: funerals, weddings, moments of solitude. They learned that a book was a labyrinth and a desert. That there was nothing more important than ceaseless reading and traveling, perhaps one and the same thing. That when books were read, writers were released from the souls of stones, which is where they went to live after they died, and they moved into the souls of readers as if into a soft prison cell, a cell that later swelled to burst. That all writing systems are frauds. That true poetry resides between the abyss and misfortune and that the grand highway of selfless acts, of the elegance of eyes and the fate of Marcabru, passes near its abode. That the main lesson of literature was courage, a rare courage like a stone well in the middle of a lake district, like a whirlwind and a mirror. That reading wasn’t more comfortable than writing. That by reading one learned to question and remember. That memory was love.
—Robert Bolano, Woes of the True Policeman (via honeyforthehomeless)