Yaz, "Only You"

Looking from a window above, it's like a story of love
Can you hear me
Came back only yesterday
I'm moving further away
Want you near me

All I needed was the love you gave
All I needed for another day
And all I ever knew
Only you

Sometimes when I think of her name
When it's only a game
And I need you
Listen to the words that you say
It's getting harder to stay
When I see you

All I needed was the love you gave
All I needed for another day
And all I ever knew
Only you

All I needed was the love you gave
All I needed for another day
And all I ever knew
Only you

This is going to take a long time
And I wonder what's mine
Can't take no more
Wonder if you'll understand
It's just the touch of your hand
Behind a closed door

All I needed was the love you gave
All I needed for another day
And all I ever knew
Only you

Austin

 

On "The Way We Were"

"There may be no greater refutation of the auteur theory — the notion that a great film is a product of a single directorial genius — than the number of fine movies that were assembled by scrabbling, sometimes squabbling parties, operating with no clear end in sight. Movies as diverse as “Casablanca,” “Laura,” “The Wizard of Oz,” “Beat the Devil,” and “Apocalypse Now” emerged from a welter of (take your pick) fired directors, fired actors, overbearing producers, minute-by-minute script changes and a sequence of postproduction Hail Marys. The more closely one peers into their chaos, the more the idea of any one person authoring them degenerates into absurdity."

More here. 

What I look like today

 

Joan Didion

 “I’m not telling you to make the world better, because I don’t think that progress is necessarily part of the package,” she once wrote. “I’m just telling you to live in it. Not just to endure it, not just to suffer it, not just to pass through it, but to live in it. To look at it. To try to get the picture. To live recklessly. To take chances. To make your own work and take pride in it. To seize the moment. And if you ask me why you should bother to do that, I could tell you that the grave’s a fine and private place, but none I think do there embrace. Nor do they sing there, or write, or argue, or see the tidal bore on the Amazon, or touch their children. And that’s what there is to do and get it while you can and good luck at it.”

More here. 

Green Apple last Friday

 

Today's writing

Being the mother of a suicide victim means always having regrets. It means that the what-ifs can rule you if you let them, and I often do. I mean, how can you help it? Tell me you don’t let regret rule you every now and again and I’ll tell you you’re a fucking liar. I once had a friend who told me over coffee I don’t have any regrets. Lofty bitch drinking her macchiato. I didn’t see her much after that.