T time

your password can be anything but it should be random

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Sari Botton Interviews Samantha Irby. (I cried reading this)

My dad’s lawyer brings her dog to the animal hospital where I worked, and I was in Chicago magazine, which is like the type of magazine your Jewish lawyer orders for her office. My dad used to drive her to the airport, and he’d have me in the car with him. He was like her chauffeur. And one day she was like, “I checked out your blog, and oh, the language, and oh, whatever,” and you could tell that she was waiting for me to apologize. So I just didn’t say anything, and then we had an awkward silence, and I was like, “What do you want me to say? Sorry? Or I’m ashamed? Tell me what you want, ’cause I don’t have the deference thing because there’s no parents around to shame me, so I get to look you in the eye as an adult and ask you what it is you’re trying to do to me. How are you trying to make me feel?”
Wow, what did she say?
She didn’t say anything. She just stood there and was just like, “Well, it was shocking to me.” And I was like, “Okay, but what am I supposed to do with that? Do you want me to tell you I’m sorry? I’m not sorry. I’m sorry you read it. If you can’t be supportive, I’m sorry you read it.” I don’t want anybody to put their shit on me.

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The Collected Poetry and Selected Prose of John Milton

Modern Library; 1942

TLDR: Teenaged Milton wrote a poem about his dead niece, but in true teenager/Milton fashion it’s heavy on mythology, light on actual grief, and somehow even scoldy. What a cock. It’ll mess your kid up and bore her at the same time. Five screams.

Note: I’m trying out something new this time—a rating system. As you see above, Henry gave this book five out of five screamfaces. What does that mean? It’s compiled using a complex algorithm based on the projected cost of future therapy attributable to this book, immediate discomfort with the sound of the prose, and whether my kid had gas while I read it to him. Precision science, this. Basically, more screams means this book is more likely to do your own child irreparable harm in the near and long term. 

Henry hates the poetry of John Milton. No, not the sweet space battles with kick-ass angel cannons. Not the righteous railing against God. Not the demon names. That stuff rules and even Henry, at two months, is attuned enough to his inner Metal to recognize it. He doesn’t have much in the way of hand control yet but I swear I’ve seen him try to throw up those horns.

No, we never even made it to Paradise Lost

That’s because the first poem in this collection—I don’t know if this is true of the 2007 re-edit from Modern Library—is about the death of Milton’s two-year-old niece. GRAB THAT TORN BLACK ONESIE SHROUD AND BUCKLE ON UP HANK, IT’S TIME FOR SOME LITERARY BABY MOURNIN’

Milton most likely wrote the poem “On the death of a fair infant dying of a cough” when he was nineteen though it was only published two years before his death, and at that time (and likewise in my edition) he marked it as being written when he was seventeen. Reading the poem, you want, for the sake of Milton’s legacy, for it to have been composed as early as possible. It’s terrible, is my point. It’s a poem by a teenager. It’s a poem by a kid trying to mourn, but getting caught up in his own lyric. He’s a sad young literary man failing at even the ‘sad’ part of the thing. James Hanford wroteMilton is seeking elevation rather than forcefulness of expression, and he as yet knows no way to attain it save by abounding in the aureate rhetoric of the age.”

The opening line is wonderful, I’ll admit:

"O fairest flower no sooner blown but blasted"

Then Milton talks about Apollo, then he compares this dead baby to an angel sent with a purpose, which is a bit Hallmark-ey, but a comfort perhaps. And then, in the last stanza, he goes Full Gross:

Then thou the mother of so sweet a child

Her false imagin’d loss cease to lament,

And wisely learn to curb her sorrows wild;

Think what a present thou to God hast sent,

And render him with patience what he lent;

This if thou do he will an offspring give,

That till the world’s last end shall make thy name to live.

I think at that point Hank and I were both screaming in rage.

Imagine your baby dies (NOT YOU HENRY DON’T WORRY YOU’LL LIVE FOREVER WHAT IS DEATH HA HA I DON’T KNOW GO BACK TO SLEEP) and what does your old-enough-to-know-better brother do? He sends you a poem telling you to shut up and maybe god will give you a better kid. Fuck you John. Fuck you.

Anyhow, Henry hated this, but Milton is Milton, so if you want to have a go you can grab the newer edition here.

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“What hurts so bad about youth isn’t the actual butt whippings the world delivers. It’s the stupid hopes playacting like certainties.”― Mary Karr, Lit: A Memoir


“What hurts so bad about youth isn’t the actual butt whippings the world delivers. It’s the stupid hopes playacting like certainties.”
― Mary Karr, Lit: A Memoir

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What Happens to a Homeless Veteran?

Well done, by my friend Tully, on how the VA often falls short:

Jymm’s many idiosyncrasies were also brought up as evidence that he was gravely disabled—for example, his habit of wearing shirts with holes in them and his preference for short shorts. Jymm has never hurt anyone (or himself). Where is the distinction between pathology and personality? When does a person’s preferences in dress and lifestyle stray from the norm—and at what point can we deem those preferences a pathological inability to care for oneself? And is a possibly indefinite incarceration in a drab hospital really an improvement over Jymm living a life of his choosing?

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Caught in the Crosshairs: the Children at Our Border

"Never mind that Americans have five churches for every immigrant child. Never mind that these same churches spend millions sending their privileged children on brief junkets we call “mission trips,” presumably to reach the very kinds of people who now huddle at our border, begging for help."

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Longform: Longform Podcast: The 100th Episode

Episode 100 of the Longform Podcast reminded me of how great Ariel Levy’s interview was on Episode 78. This is her, explaining why she wrote about her miscarriage in the New Yorker essay “Thanksgiving in Mongolia” 

"I’m a feminist. And I think that having a baby come out of your vagina on a bathroom floor in Mongolia is real. That’s real. That happened to me, I’m not making that up. That happened. And if you’re not going to write about that then what the hell are you doing, are you a writer? And I think the idea that blood, and birth, and tragedy of a distinctly female nature, you know, that’s real. That’s as real as, you know, I’m gonna go hunting swordfish, whatever, you know what I mean, this is real, that’s what women do, they push human beings out of themselves. That’s intense shit, and it goes wrong a lot. It’s gone wrong for a lot of my friends, it’s gone wrong for me, and that’s part of being a woman. I mean, it doesn’t have to be, some people have better experiences, and some people don’t have children, and that’s all real; but this is my reality, and birth is a lot of women’s reality, and I don’t understand why you wouldn’t write about that, if you were a writer, and you were a feminist, and that was your reality."

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An impossible Depth


I’ve been reading “Tiny Beautiful Things: Advice on Love and Life from Dear Sugar” by Cheryl Strayed on the way too and from work. I’m reading other things too, but this one I read particularly on my commute. It makes me closer to the people around me as I actively hate how close they are to my…