I found this quote tonight wondering around the internet (cough, Pinterest. What’s your addiction?) and I really liked it. The source I found attributed to good old William Shakespeare but after a google search I’ve come to find the actual author as Arrigo Boito. Does it matter? Do you love the quote? Am I a hopeless romantic? Yes. Again, I refer to Kanye on this one.
Anyway, G. loves the artist Frida Kahlo so when I came across this letter that she wrote to her husband Diego Rivera (both pictured above), I knew I had to post it here for her. The letter is beautiful isn’t it? I love that it’s written on an envelope, a work of art and love in itself.
Hi. Funny how I thought I would take a little break this memorial day weekend. I guess I had more to write to you than I thought. As you loyal readers know, as of late I’ve been a huge Emmylou Harris fan and I was so happy to find this duet that Ryan Adams sings with her. How did I not know about Ryan Adams either? You’ve got to fill me in on these things, Hart Beat.
Hey Hart Beat. How’s your Memorial Day Weekend going? My family is all up in Maine this weekend spending the long weekend by the ocean. I am so jealous, but I guess other than costal Maine, there’s no place I’d rather be than Brooklyn.
Since I’m missing out on all the sunnin’ and funnin’ of this holiday weekend, I thought I would try to recreate some of the perks of the ocean by trying some of this highly recommended sea salt hair spray. I had originally wanted to by the Bumble and bumble brand but the hair salon near my apartment only carried this other kind by Davines (who by chance, make my favorite “Love” hair conditioner.)
I’m in love, Hart Beat. Since it’s so hot and humid in New York during the summer I decided I’m going to stop blow drying my hair and this is the perfect solution. Now I can have beach summer waves all summer long. And the best part? Davines sea salt primer smells amazingly like the ocean and coconut. Perfect combination.
Even though I don’t have the exact product, this video is amazingly helpful too. I pretty much do the same thing except air dry… gracias a dios it’s finally summer, Hart Beat. (And for more on hair products look here for my special secret…)
Hey Hart Beat. I know tonight is the premier of a very special television show, so I thought I would share a movie trailer to warm you up. Way early back on Hart Beat I wrote about how attractive Joseph Gordon-Levitt is. Well, things haven’t changed. He is still adorable and a hearthrob. His new movie, Don Jon, coming out this summer is his directing and writing debut. Can I see it now please?
Hey Hart Beat. Happy Friday! I’m so happy it’s the weekend. Unfortunately, I’ll be working the next few days but, AMAZINGLY, will be rewarded by the new Arrested Development season on Monday morning. Good times, Hart Beat.
Anyway, I was up on and off last night with really intense but good dreams. While I was up I rediscovered this song from last summer. How did I not know it was about New York City? Why am I not surprised?
Hi. I don’t have much to say other than you should really read this letter written by Henry Miller to Anaïs Nin. It’s pretty long but, I promise it’s worth every word. It literally breathes love in the purist sense.
August 14, 1932
Don’t expect me to be sane anymore. Don’t let’s be sensible. It was a marriage at Louveciennes– you can’t dispute it. I came away with pieces of you sticking to me; I am walking about, swimming, in an ocean of blood, your Andalusian blood, distilled and poisonous. Everything I do and say and think relates back to the marriage. I saw you as the mistress of your home, a Moor with a heavy face, a negress with a white body, eyes all over your skin, woman, woman, woman. I can’t see how I can go on living away from you– these intermissions are death. How did it seem to you when Hugo came back? Was I still there? I can’t picture you moving about with him as you did with me. I was almost terrified by it. You are not just thirty years old– you are a thousand years old.
Here I am back and still smouldering with passion, like wine smoking. Not a passion any longer for flesh, but a complete hunger for you, a devouring hunger. I read the paper about suicides and murders and I understand it all thoroughly. I feel murderous, suicidal. I feel somehow that it is a disgrace to do nothing, to just bide one’s time to take it philosophically, to be sensible. Where has gone the time when men fought, killed, died for a glove, a glance, etc? (A victrola is playing that terrible aria from Madam Butterfly— “Some day he’ll come!”)
I still hear you singing in the kitchen– a sort of inharmonic, monotonous Cuban wail. I know you’re happy in the kitchen and the meal you’re cooking is the best meal we ever ate together. I know you would scald yourself and not complain. I feel the greatest peace and joy sitting in the dining room listening to you rustling about, your dress like the goddess Indra studded with a thousand eyes.
Anais, I only thought I loved you before; it was nothing like this certainty that’s in me now. Was all this so wonderful only because it was brief and stolen? Were we acting for each other, to each other? Was I less I, or more I, and you less or more you? Is it madness to believe that this could go on? When and where would the drab moments begin? I study you so much to discover the possible flaws, the weak points, the danger zones. I don’t find them– not any. That means I am in love, blind, blind. To be blind forever! (Now they’re singing “Heaven and Ocean” from La GiocondaI.)
I picture you playing the records over and over– Hugo’s records. “Parlez moi d amour.” The double life, double taste, double joy and misery. How you must be furrowed and ploughed by it. I know all that, but I can’t do anything to prevent it. I wish indeed it were me who had come to endure it. I know now your eyes are wide open. Certain things you will never believe anymore, certain gestures you will never repeat, certain sorrows, misgivings, you will never again experience. A kind of white criminal fervor in your tenderness and cruelty. Neither remorse nor vengeance, neither sorrow not guilt. A living it out, with nothing to save you from the abysm but a high hope, a faith, a joy that you tasted, that you can repeat when you will.
All morning I was at my note, ferreting through my life records, wondering where to begin, how to make a start, seeing not just another book before me but a life of books. But I don’t begin. The walls are completely bare– I have taken everything down before going to meet you. It is as though I had made ready to leave for good. The spots on the walls stand out– where our heads rested. While it thunders and lightnings I lie on the bed and go through wild dreams. We’re in Seville and then in Fez and then in Capri and then in Havana. We’re journeying constantly, but there is always a machine and books, and your body is always close to me and the look in your eyes never changes. People are saying we will be miserable, we will regret, but we are happy, we are laughing always, we are singing. We are talking Spanish and French and Arabic and Turkish. We are admitted everywhere and the strew our path with flowers.
I say this is a wild dream– but it is a dream I want to realize. Life and literature combined, love the dynamo, you with your chameleon’s soul giving me a thousand loves, being anchored always in no matter what storm, home wherever we are. In the mornings, continuing where we left off. Resurrection after resurrection. You asserting yourself, getting the rich varied life you desire; and the more you assert yourself the more you want me, need me. Your voice getting hoarser, deeper, your eyes blacker, your blood thicker, your body fuller. A voluptuous servility and delight of experience.
There. I’m devastated that it’s over and I have to stop typing Henry Millers beautiful and true words. I’m actually heartbroken it’s over. Maybe someday I’ll write a letter like this. Have a nice night, Hart Beat.
This letter, like the many posted here before it, comes from my favorite website “Letters of Note.”
Hi Hart Beat. How was your Wednesday? I had today off so my Dad came into Brooklyn to go for another training ride for our trip this summer. It was amazing. I’m seriously in love with Brooklyn, Hart Beat. We rode from my neighborhood, Greenpoint, which is the most northern neighborhood, down to Prospect Park in central Brooklyn and then all the way south to the coast and the Atlantic Ocean.
It was amazing making our way to the boardwalk and coney island and I wish I had brought along my real camera to take pictures for you. These from my iphone will have to do…
Yesterday at the market the sweetest couple came in to visit. They were traveling New York on vacation from Lisbon, Portugal and as soon as I found out I couldn’t stop talking to them about the city and Portugal in general. It sounds amazing, and now I’m travel crazy for going there. I know this summer I’m going back to Spain (rough life, I know) but next time I cross the Atlantic I really want to explore Portugal. The couple showed me pictures and it looks absolutely beautiful. Plus it’s so close to my favorite country in the whole world, so how can it be bad?
How about you, Hart Beat? You ever wanted to go to Portugal? It sounds like such a romantic country and I would love to go there someday… soon.
All the photos here were taken by my amazing friend, Marina Gluckman in 2011. Thank you so much Marina!