Every now and again I'll think about this day when a kid wearing cleats stomped on my hand on the playground. I thought I could see the bone in my middle finger. I can't remember anymore if I could actually see the bone, but time will do that.
cordjefferson(at)gmail(dot)com
@cordjefferson
• About
• Selected Works
• "I won't say no. How could I?"
This Talking Is Only Bravado
cordjefferson(at)gmail(dot)com
@cordjefferson
• About
• Selected Works
• "I won't say no. How could I?"
This Talking Is Only Bravado
Prison sentences of black men were nearly 20% longer than those of white men for similar crimes in recent years, an analysis by the U.S. Sentencing Commission found.
That racial gap has widened since the Supreme Court restored judicial discretion in sentencing in 2005, according to the Sentencing Commission’s findings, which were submitted to Congress last month and released publicly this week.
My dude Keith got me André Gide’s Madeleine for my birthday. It is a book of journal entries Gide wrote to his dead wife—who was also his cousin—after she passed away, and he originally only published a few copies and gave them out to close friends. After Gide died, everyone pried into his life, and of course Knopf made Madeleine into a book.
As you can probably guess, Madeleine is a very sad thing to read because it is basically all about how Gide loved this woman but never really wanted to have anything to do with her romantically because he was gay and preferred to sleep with the handsome guys he met on his travels. Neither Gide nor Madeleine were really nice to one another, and they sort of just hung out sometimes until he watched her die. BUT, there is a passage I like more than others:
No, I had not ceased loving her. For that matter, since nothing carnal had ever entered into my devotion for her, that devotion was not to let itself be altered by the weathering resulting from time; for that matter, I never loved Madeleine more than aged, stooped, suffering from varicose veins in her legs, which she would let me bandage, almost disabled, at last surrendering to my attentions, sweetly and tenderly grateful.
What is our love made of, then, I used to wonder, if it persists in spite of all the crumbling of the elements that compose it? What is hidden behind the deceptive exterior that I recapture and recognize as the same through the dilapidations? Something immaterial, harmonious, radiant, which must be called soul, but what does the word matter? She believed in immortality; and I am the one who ought to believe in it, for it is she who left me.
Happy V Day.
This National Geographic video of a dead alligator’s penis is terrifying. Happy Valentime’s.
“I doubted everything, but now I’m so excited.”
Man, I thought 2 Days in New York was so funny, and it’s the first movie I’ve seen in a long time that made me miss NYC for a little bit.
