Um, definitely the crushes of my youth.
I wasn’t planning on it, no. Why?
And yet the reputation of modern solitude is puzzling, because the traits enabling a solitary life—financial stability, spiritual autonomy, the wherewithal to buy more dishwashing detergent when the box runs out—are those our culture prizes. Plus, recent demographic shifts suggest that aloneness, far from fading out in our connected age, is on its way in.
I was willing to categorize Kinkade’s work as “not to my taste but benign and beloved by millions” until I read the New Yorker piece in which I found out he sold canvases that incorporated his DNA into the paint as proof against counterfeiting. Since then, his stuff has creeped me out.
I, like, worked hard at the gym last night.
Repped squats at 205 lbs., deadlifts at 235 lbs. Not terrible, but a long way to go until I’m back at my previous strength levels. I didn’t want to push it too hard, given that it was my first time back in a month or so. And only the fourth time I’ve lifted since late December.
Some pain in my quads and upper back, but certainly nothing injurious. Looking forward to some grueling lifts today, as well as a considerable amount of cardio.
Anderson Cooper, then and now.
It’s not just the women who downplayed their sexual exploitation—scholars have often relegated these stories to footnotes, choosing to tone down these experiences, whether because of shame that their mothers, grandmothers, or whoever close to them were raped, or because they chose instead to focus on stories of triumph and hope. Some scholars have been reluctant to use victim testimonies in their construction of Holocaust history, favoring “official documents.” This is problematic because Nazi documentation on rape is scarce or nonexistent. Also, the shame of Jews raping Jewish women in the camps or ghettos may have been a difficult truth to accept within the community.
Fascinating article on - not the occurrence, but the reportage and acknowledgement - of sexual assaults on Jewish women during the Holocaust. Historiography is fascinating.
Here is the most depressing and beautiful thought of them all:
I will never read all I desire. I will never attend all opera I desire. I will not walk across all of the bridges, nor see all of the artwork.
Life is Sisyphean; no matter how much effort, no progress is made against the currents of culture, identity, progress, intellect. But trying - oh that beautiful struggle - is its own reward.
On a[n un]related note, Götterdämmerung is this Saturday afternoon. At least I have that?