pretty little things from 04.29.25
that sweet summer nostalgia
the sky looks like it holds a secret—that hour where blue melts into blush, and the palms stretch like soft exclamation points against the hush of early night. the moon is small and bold, rising with no ceremony, just presence. the air smells faintly of sunscreen and the last whisper of something sweet—that’s the feeling of summer nostalgia
i included some poems that resonated with me today, as well as a little something from my diary. i hope you enjoy these pretty little things, x
“having a coke with you”, Frank O’Hara (1960)
I look
at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world
except possibly for the Polish Rider occasionally and anyway it’s in the Frick
which thank heavens you haven’t gone to yet so we can go together for the first time
and the fact that you move so beautifully more or less takes care of Futurism
just as at home I never think of the Nude Descending a Staircase or
at a rehearsal a single drawing of Leonardo or Michelangelo that used to wow me
and what good does all the research of the Impressionists do them
when they never got the right person to stand near the tree when the sun sank
or for that matter Marino Marini when he didn’t pick the rider as carefully
as the horse
it seems they were all cheated of some marvelous experience
which is not going to go wasted on me which is why I’m telling you about it
The most beautiful part of your body
is where it’s headed.
& remember,
loneliness is still time spent
with the world.
from “Someday I’ll Love Ocean Vuong”, Ocean Vuong (2016)
the beach is still golden in my mind—
not bright, not loud, but sun-warmed like our skin after swimming
everything about that day felt half-held and already half-lost
like time was folding inward and outward at once
we didn’t say much. just watched the tide take back what it gave
someone was laughing in the distance. a seagull screamed but we didn’t look up
i remember the weight of the sand, the weight on my body in it, next to you
now it lives in a frame smaller than my hand
blurry at the corners, but still glowing at the center
proof that we were there. that the light touched us
that not everything we say ‘goodbye’ to is gone
from my diary, 4.29.25
And something that is not exactly speech, like a promise,
is born in the dusk and folded into the day’s last light.
You will walk, and perhaps not see the faces you expected.
You will hear the wind, and the clatter of voices not yours.
It does not matter. All is continuous.
All is folded into a single memory.
Mark Strand, from “The Continuous Life” (1990)
that’s all for tonight’s pretty little things. may your dreams be quiet and golden. x
