new ting i did plz check it
my mane made a tune
On 17 September 1967, Maria Carlota Costallat de Macedo Soares arrived in New York City to visit Elizabeth Bishop, who was then staying at a West Village apartment owned by Loren MacIvers. That night, Lota, as she was known, took an overdose of Valium and slipped into a coma from which she never awakened.
On 17 September 1973, Elizabeth Bishop wrote to Ashley Brown:
I feel the time is approaching when I must give a PARTY. I usually enjoy my own very much, but the prospect seems too much right now - probably because it’s because every time I laugh, I get an awful stitch in my side…
On 17 September 1952, Bishop had written to U. T. and Joseph Summers about the wedding of the cook and the gardener who worked for her and Lota:
Driving away from the judge’s the blushing bride said she wasn’t going to sleep with him until they’d been married in the church (a fairy tale), ha-ha-ha, and Lota said, ‘Lulu’ (the gardener), ‘insist on your rights - insist on your rights in ten minutes’ - much laughter all around…
On 6 October 1979, before she died of a brain aneurysm that same day, Bishop wrote and mailed a letter to John Frederick Nims:
Two of three years ago I was talking away about ‘The Quaker Graveyard [in Nantucket’, by Robert Lowell] and when I asked a question the whole class responded in chorus with what I discovered […] were the footnotes from the Norton anthology - some right, in that case, but again some wrong. We finally all got to laughing - but that was an unusually bright class.
homie crafting’s track mercy got a droaned out remix
hey new ish
On a February many years ago, C. found himself afflicted with an overwhelming melancholy. It came to him like a vision, suddenly, and impossible to comprehend or avoid.
How distasteful everything was then for C., who could not even muster the will to feel disgust, much less hatred. He was left only with a sickening taste in his mouth that would start from the moment he woke up and then slowly increase in its intensity, so that when he finally collapsed into bed at night he would be on the verge of regurgitating what little food he had managed to eat that day.
His then girlfriend (whose last name C. can no longer recall, although he can sketch her face from memory with disquieting accuracy) left him, as she had become unable to tolerate the bitter ironic witticisms that had come to dominate all their conversations. For the same reason, C. lost almost all his friends. It was as if he had been possessed by a demon, for in a final analysis the way in which he alienated them had been nothing short of systematic. Before the end of March, rendered helplessly unproductive by his malady, C. was forced to leave his job by his puzzled superiors, who had seen in C. a promising young candidate for a managerial position before his inexplicable breakdown.
It seemed to C. that he had entered a dark night of the soul, that is to say a purgation almost to the point of an annihilation of the self; it is the emptying out of every hope and every felicity so that, at the extremities of emptiness and despair, one would be fully unified with God, being a wholly empty vessel ready to receive the Spirit, to put it somewhat crudely, for C. is no theologian, nor does he believe in God. In fact, C. is quite certain that he has mangled his interpretation completely. Nevertheless, he was capable of imagining the Christian’s disgrace as being similar to his own, and he had a paradoxical hope for a similar operation of grace, if not divine grace, then surely some sort of earthly grace. Yet, if one followed the argument, the only way for grace to express itself was for C. to go further down his path of degradation, to fully inhabit the dark night into which he had been thrust.
C. almost died that year. He contemplated suicide many times, and attempted it just once. It was on a rainy afternoon in September that C., lying in a warm bath, opened his veins from wrist to elbow. Until today, C. remembers how beautiful the blood looked as it gushed out into the water. It was like a nebula, a dense and sprawling cloud yearning towards the singular point of a heavenly star. This was the last thought that passed through C.’s mind before he slipped into unconsciousness.
To this day, C. does not know how he survived. He was brought to the hospital by a woman who had not given her name and never came to visit him. When he returned home, it was apparent that his apartment had been broken into. The door had been forced open, and several of C.’s valuables, including a Seiko watch that his father had given him, were missing. C. wonders now if he had been rescued by a potential burglar and, if so, why this burglar had personally driven him to the hospital in time for him to be saved. Compared to this, C. says, it seems almost more plausible that God had sent an angel to save me, and that I had only been burgled after that, during the time I spent lying in the hospital. I do not believe in God, but neither can I find any explanation for the strange happenings, indeed miracles, that came by me that day.
A few days after hearing C.’s account, Z. realises that C. had given no indication of whether he had ever managed to escape the dark night that first engulfed his soul on February all those years ago. C. had declined to exchange addresses or phone numbers, not because I dislike you, C. had assured Z., but for reasons that I could not explain to myself, let alone to you. At the time, Z. had accepted this without question, being a rather private person himself, but now, Z. feels himself besieged by suggestions that C. had been a ghost, or perhaps an angel, who had existed only for an instant, and that he had now vanished from the earth forever, without rescue.