I wanted to write a palate cleanser
for us to suck on (on our walks)
through the unkempt rose gardens,
artificial meadows, underneath brisk sunlight
I wanted to say: here’s what I learned about making it worthwhile:
eat from a garden, read a lot, have some children,
keep journals, befriend a nun, do morning tai chi, Transcendental Meditation,
have a uniform, have some money, learn some languages, how to fuck, how to make, travel to france, uruguay, calcutta, ankara,
the greek islands, the amazon, the andes, be a hiker and bicyclist and a good host, sober, a smart fellow,
a beautiful lady, a ruckus of character, plan your dying,
in the mountains of Vermont (it’s like taking a shot!)
make your bed clean your floors clean all your gutters before
leave your hair white, wrapped in ribbons and in braids, denounce vanity, draw caricatures, live in the same apartment forever, be a good lover and a good friend, leave us something good to philosophize,
and make sure the flowers are tasteful, the moon is white-hot, and think of us, don’t forget to
send us a sign we won’t see outside the chapel
I wanted to leave you a note on how to do all this
without the precipice of worries,
without the malignancy of certitude,
a sticky little trouble
littering the banks of my voids
but i’m still learning to fill them
and to let tomorrow bring me
palate cleanser, palate cleanser,
could you bring me —
start anew
Hi hello! I can barely believe it’s the 60th issue of fotocopy! What a dream. Like always, thank you all for finding your way here to my writing. It means a lot that so many friends are reading these as I slowly churn them out. I wrote this poem as a literal palate cleanser; I’ve been feeling very overwhelmed with establishing a new routine with my new job, and coupled with my new reality of attending so many funerals of many different kinds of people, I’ve just been thinking/obsessing about what makes life worthwhile. The list part of this poem is composed of things I learned about people who’ve died during their service/things I’d like to do/my observations of what people expect at memorial services. This felt much like writing a will, a manifesto, and an instructional list. It was fun, and I truly felt like I was cleansing myself of the anxiety I’ve been feeling. I’m still in the “facing mortality over and over again” phase of this line of work. It’s no joke.
I finished The Years by Annie Ernaux!!! It took me like seven billion years to finish because it’s one of the hardest books I’ve ever read. Eranux is so freaking talented it hurts but sometimes she loses me (so much French history I am unfamilar with), and yet! I can’t stop thinking about it. The distance she creates away from herself by writing about cultural/political events of the time, and then, out of nowhere, bringing the reader closer to her is riveting.
Right now, I’m reading Didion and Babitz by Lili Anolik because I want something easy. Anolik’s writing is honestly pretty tedious and insanely biased (towards Babitz), but I like reading about writers’ lives. I feel like I’m reading a reality TV show about two ‘60s LA icons with a thin plot/no plot. That’s probably the most interesting thing about it. Sorry if this is mean, but I think I mean it in a good-ish way!
I’m back on albums! During walks, I’ve been listening to Bruno Berle’s second album, No Reino Dos Afectos 2. I wrote about his first album in an early issue of fotocopy, where I said it reminded me of being in the rain. This one is more of an unexpected drizzle while it’s still sunny out. I love that this second album is supposed to be in conversation with the first, but can also stand on its own as a, unique, separate work. Berle, I think, has successfully crafted his distinct sound within his musical exploration of Brazilian music.
Also on walks (I’ve been trying to take a lot of walks), I’ve been listening to Fine Food Market’s EP I’m afraid to be in love with someone who crashes their car that much. I love when Spotify’s algorithm actually hits because there is not a single skip in this, but my favorites are probably Wild World, Emmene-moi, and Sometimes. I also love that Sophie Perras named her band after the auto-location of her draft voice notes for songs. It reminds me of my own recordings on my iPhone with weirdly mislabeled locations that feel like a barely-incorrect map of past places in my life.
Ever since I learned that some people think the lyrics to Only A Fool Would Say That are a John Lennon diss, Steely Dan’s Can’t Buy A Thrill has been frequently on the rotation. George Harrison is my Beatle of choice. (Catch me on my Lili Anolik shit).
With love, till the next,
Gabo <3