Kanye's New Single

Coldest Winter. It's heartbreaking. This album is going to sell like nobody's business. Vulnerability in a single dose from a man who has made his career on ego. It's so sad how fascinating that is.

Fall Back

San Francisco is sweltering tonight. The clingy, slightly suffocating, heat that envelops the city during Indian summers feels like it's invaded my body, pulsing my arms and legs while it pushes at the seams to escape. Even though it is 1am and a work night, the city is vibrant. From the street below my kitchen window, I hear laughter and drunken banter as the bar on the corner reaches capacity. People too inebriated to leave are now hanging over the side of an elongated open window that stares out on Sutter street, and very likely, they are all smoking cigarettes. In this greenest of hippiest of most sensitive cities, there are smokers who are dirty, loud and don't hesitate to ask for a hand out; and often, they are proud of it. This is especially true when you live daringly close to a neighborhood where a stretch of piss-stained sidewalk is valuable real estate both night and day.

Yet in spite of all that below me, I am here, sitting on my bed in an apartment I love, admiring the smirk on Reese Witherspoon's face as she stares at me from the cover of this month's Vogue. I never thought I would read Vogue, I never thought I would attempt being a writer, and I never thought I would embrace complexity and uncertainty in the ways that I do now. But I don't regret any of it, and I am happier that I am trying and somewhat succeeding at taking chances, even if I will fail in the near future. One day, I'm going to look back on these lively, enigmatic days, and tell my daughter that in order to find yourself, you have to lose yourself a little bit first.

Oh, and I'm also going to tell her that living on the top floor of an older building is all sunshine and rainbows until you realize that everyone can hear every breath and move that you make, and that those flights of stairs may be cute now, but they'll be your worst enemy at the end of a long day in heels.

S brought me pomegranate seeds tonight in a bowl, and left them for me on my desk while I was chatting on the phone. It reminded me of Poppa, and how he'd cut melons, apples, pears, any fruit and leave it for me on my desk after dinner, every night, without fail. I would sit in my room with my face pressed against the computer screen, listening to the gentle swish swish of his slippers approaching on the parquet floor. All I'd hope for was that he wouldn't want a long drawn out conversation with me; but I was such an introverted adolescent by then, he knew better than to try and engage me. Instead, he would smile and lean towards me with an outstretched arm placing the bowl safely on my desk, a napkin tucked neatly underneath.

"Here you go, kiddo."

As I would mumble thank you, he'd smile, then amble back down the hallway to his favorite chair in front of the TV. If he'd timed it right, Monday Night Football would just be returning from their half-time show.

Makes me wish I'd known a little better back then, about how quickly time passes and how much life can change. Hugs, love, cocoa puffs. Thanks for everything, San Francisco. It's your people that are making all the difference.

sheng ri kuai le

Murakami and Eastwood

From the New Yorker Festival that just passed this weekend, a couple snippets of tastiness.

The first, words of wisdom (via the NYF blog) from Haruki Murakami on writing.

"He began by telling the story of a jazzman who, when accused of playing 'just like Charlie Parker,' handed his saxophone to his critic and said, 'Here—you try playing like Charlie Parker.' He said that we should draw three conclusions from this:

1. Criticizing somebody is fun and easy.

2. Meanwhile, creating something original is very hard.

3. But somebody’s got to do it.

He went on to reveal his writing secrets:

On inspiration: 'I became a writer all of a sudden. I don’t know why.'

On the three essentials to literature: 'Reason. Harmony. Free improvisation.'

On momentum: 'I wanted to turn the pages, but there were no pages—I had to write them. I don’t know what’s going to happen next, so I write it. And then I don’t know what’s going to happen next, so I write it.'

On happiness: 'If the protagonist is happy, there’s no story at all.'

On the toughness required to be a writer: 'You have to be Rocky.'

On writing in general: 'It’s fun.'"

And the second -- well, everyone wants to be a little more like Clint Eastwood. Duh. Time to pick up a musical instrument! Did you know he composed the musical scores (including the theme of Mystic River) for many of his films? Me neither. Watch this clip of him playing piano at the Directors Guild of America. He plays a little ragtime, some honky tonk, and picks out a squeensy bit of what sounds like a Chopin Nocturne. Clint, if you hadn't won me over already with your serious directing chops, you definitely did when you had your way on stage with those ivories.