Tag Archives: lost love

Hannah Hunt, the best breakup song

Hi Hart Beat. How’s your weekend going? I am so glad that tomorrow is Friday and I’m even more excited that I get to spend some time with my oldest friend Sammy. Shout-out to S. tonight for sharing this beautiful song with me. (Second shout-out to Spotify for making the world of music sharing such a wonderful place.)

I hadn’t listened to Vampire Weekend’s most recent album until Sam recommended this song to me and now I can’t believe where I was for so long. “Hannah Hunt,” the song posted bellow, is what has taken me so strongly, and no, not because it’s about another Hannah, because it is one of the most simple and achingly beautiful song about a breakup I’ve heard in a while.

In Santa Barbara, Hannah cried
And missed those freezing beaches
And I walked into town
To buy some kindling for the fire,
Hannah tore the New York Times up into pieces

If I can’t trust you then damn it, Hannah
There’s no future, there’s no answer
Though we live on the US dollar
You and me, we got our own sense of time

“Hannah Hunt” by Vampire Weekend

Leaving You Behind

Hi Hart Beat. I wanted to share a new song with you really fast this Saturday night. If you’re on your way out too we can listen to it together. What do you think, Hart Beat? You in?

“I Should Live in Salt”
Think about something so much
You should know me better than that
Start to slide out of touch
You should know me better than that
Tell yourself it’s all you know
You should know me better than that
Learn to appreciate the void
You should know me better than that

I should live in salt for leaving you behind

Leaving You Behind

Hi Hart Beat. I wanted to share a new song with you really fast this Saturday night. If you’re on your way out too we can listen to it together. What do you think, Hart Beat? You in?

“I Should Live in Salt”
Think about something so much
You should know me better than that
Start to slide out of touch
You should know me better than that
Tell yourself it’s all you know
You should know me better than that
Learn to appreciate the void
You should know me better than that

I should live in salt for leaving you behind

The first time I saw her

Hey Hart Beat. You need to watch this right now. This is one of the most amazingly heartbreakingly true poems about love that I’ve ever heard. The poem is called “OCD” and is written and preformed by Neil Hilborn. If you want more spoken word, check out this love letter from Sarah Kay.

I want her back so bad I leave the door unlocked, I leave the lights on.
Francisco Goya

Some say love is a burning thing

I found this song the other day and now I can’t stop listening to it. Are you surprised, Hart Beat? I’m not. I love that the first couple lines are in reference to Johnny Cash. I mean, the lyrics in general are amazing in this song. It’s perfect for a Friday night. What do you think, Hart Beat?

Some say love is a burning thing
That it makes a fiery ring
Oh but I know love as a fading thing
Just as fickle as a feather in a stream
See, honey, I saw love,
You see it came to me
It puts its face up to my face so I could see
Yeah than I saw love disfigure me
Into something I am not recognizing

“Song for Zula” by Phosphorescent 

Some say love is a burning thing

I found this song the other day and now I can’t stop listening to it. Are you surprised, Hart Beat? I’m not. I love that the first couple lines are in reference to Johnny Cash. I mean, the lyrics in general are amazing in this song. It’s perfect for a Friday night. What do you think, Hart Beat?

Some say love is a burning thing
That it makes a fiery ring
Oh but I know love as a fading thing
Just as fickle as a feather in a stream
See, honey, I saw love,
You see it came to me
It puts its face up to my face so I could see
Yeah than I saw love disfigure me
Into something I am not recognizing

“Song for Zula” by Phosphorescent 

Anais, I only thought I loved you before

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

Anais:

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.

HVM

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.”

Parts of me remind me of you

Hi Hart Beat. A couple of days ago I posted this song by Sky Ferreira and tonight I want to share another one with you. The two are extremely different but I can’t figure out which one I love more. I guess that’s a good problem, right Hart Beat?
When I got into my car and drove away,
I listened to the stereo play
I live by my own laws,
I stick to my guns and hold my head up to midnight sun
“Sad Dream” by Sky Ferreira

To the you of ten years ago, now

Hey Hart Beat. I’m just off for my run but I wanted to share this poem with you before I left for the night. I read it in last week’s New Yorker and I feel in love as soon as I read it. I’ve actually been carrying around the magazine all week so I can read it on the train. Also, if you want another poem about lost love, listen to this. I love both of these poems so much and I hope you do too, Hart Beat.


To the You of Ten Years Ago, Now

by Dora Malech

Never fear. I know the difference between
arteries and ardor, arbor and treed,
my bower and a weak-kneed need, a harbor
where one might moor tonight and a port worth
the oars’ effort to come ashore for, a bit
part and the serpent’s gravid apple. I won’t
flatter myself first or lasting, or 
presume to fast and fein a martyr, making
mockery of sacrifice, fatten
for some sweet slaughter. I must believe that I’m 
not on your mind. On your body? Sure.
That said, your body has a few ideas
so bright that we might meet some night and render
a dark room light as the last day before
the world ends, that doom that was supposed to dawn
today, but by now, hours worn on and in,
we know there’s no such luxury as fine
as that finality for now. For now, 
at least, I’ll have to kiss apocalypse 
goodbye, resign myself to this more mundane
pain, the solace of the solstice, year’s
earliest sunset and its longest night.
I try to catch that fade of color with,
without a flash. Both tries prove terrible.
The horizon smudges up against the sky’s blue
like a child’s heavy-handed landscape
and inept erasure. They’ll have to do.
The pictures that I have of you will never
do you justice, either, neither a camera’s 
snap nor some synaptic crackle long
elapsed can come remotely close to holding
you. How else would you have it? You need
never fear. I need you, but I only need you
where you are: there, never far, never near.