Urban Yoga by Anja Humljan
Everything Indicates: Bay Bridge Portraits and Poems. I flip through poetry compilations and sometimes only read the end of each poem. Bad habit. This is a compilation which evokes a series of memories in me- about Oakland, about walking and not walking, about bridges. But most of all, Loren’s apartment, sunlight on the patio, inability to walk, but happiness despite all. His voice when reading his own poetry aloud, and his voice when we acted out Shakespeare together on his couch. It’s nice that it’s all available online. Try to forget the compilation, and just read the parts for the poetry they are. Excerpts below.
Diptyque. More candle coveting.
Complete James Bay. I started listening to this randomly and felt a little bit mesmerized. It feels like the type of thing I’d listen to while driving in the night through settled snow.
A Drunken Afternoon with Anthony Bourdain. An older article, but excellent anyways.
Kanye West: I’m amazing. Also from a while ago. “I feel like all the words are in you, you’re just blocking yourself, you’re blocking your creativity. Society has put up so many boundaries, so many limitations on what’s right and wrong that it’s almost impossible to get a pure thought out… Everyone’s born confident, and everything’s taken away from you. So many people try to put their personality on someone else.”
The lyrics to Cabaret. My Drake kick led me to this, and I mean… even though I’m a professional I like to do my work at home.
Spreadhouse. So brand new that their website is frustratingly unhelpful. Shh, best kept secret right now. 116 Suffolk Street. Coffee house with delicious vegan treats by Cake Thieves, and I kid you not, I’m obsessed with the fact that the plant on the end of the bar is named Herb. Plus, the owners do this. I see you, Pete and Greg.
Big Hero 6. I cannot stress how amazing this movie is. I want to hug a Baymax.
He turns toward
the arched bridge, bridge to another world, and as he
leads, I follow, trying to close the distance between us.
Though he’s only a whited shadow now, I
hear the faint wheeze of the hart, fear it and the beat,
and again, beat of my pale and unabridged heart.
But to do that now, with convictions so unsure,
Requires of us a self-anchoring
Suspension of disbelief
From which to make ourselves again.