Molly Ivins on mortality

Molly Ivins

From the New York Observer article on Molly IvinsNYC memorial service (via Gawker):

The most poignant moments were provided by Eden Lipson, a former Times colleague and one of Ivins’ closest friends.

“A few years ago I finally realized that it was us, the cosmopolitan New Yorkers in the media capitol, with our literary and political gossip and hermetic chattering who were, in fact, provincial,” said Ms. Lipson. “ Molly was the one who saw America large and clear, who out-reported the mainstream media from Austin, who had a balanced and ultimately optimistic view of the world. Molly’s generosity was legendary, but in addition, she was brave. She went on book tours two and half times while on chemotherapy.”

Ms. Lipson was also diagnosed with cancer last year. Before it went into remission, Ivins came to visit her at the hospital. This is what she told her friend:

“Understanding mortality is entirely personal and won’t know it until you face it. The cancer will probably kill you in the end, but moving ahead, do as much as you can . . . until you can’t.”

“And then it’s okay to let go.”

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Letter from God: Dan Le Sac vs. Scroobius Pip

Another from the twisted genii that brought us Thou Shalt Always Kill.

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RIP: Pavarotti

I’m late on this, but I’m sure you’ll understand it took me some time to work through my feelings. Pavarotti was a greatly talented man, and perhaps the highest iteration of a particular type, ie the man possessed of immortal talent who doesn’t mind trotting it out at his Mom’s every damn Sunday dinner, or singing at a friend’s birthday party, or showing up for any benefit concert that will have him, provided they lay on the pasta spread.

And I love people like that. To the other, equally talented individuals who hoard their gifts as if they are MRE’s in the face of Katrina, we say: can I buy you an enema, darling?

Luciano Pavarotti, perhaps the greatest opera singer of the 20th Century, and disco diva/supermodel Grace Jones, at a benefit for Angola.

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the dreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald

The Dreck of the Edmund FitzgeraldOne of the greatest and most Canadian of all Canadian songs is Gordon Lightfoot‘s The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald. Quite typically, it’s a story about a tragedy that actually took place in the US, affecting primarily Americans and it is more or less successfully attempting to pass as a Yank tune.

It’s the accent.

The ship went down in a storm on November 10, 1975. The ship had been in grave trouble, and in constant radio and visual contact with a fellow ship, for many hours when it vanished in a sudden squall. No trace of the ship has surfaced…until now.

Now, from exotic Conklin, Michigan comes news that bits of the wreckage have begun to wash up on the shores of Lake Superior. Well, 20 feet up from the water line, about as high as the waves were the night she went down. Unfortunately, the constituent parts of a Great Lakes shipping vessel are not exactly the glamorous New World equivalent of the gold of Spanish galleons.

Joe, an apple farmer from Conklin, Mich., was agate hunting with his family midway between Horse Shoe Harbor and High Rock Bay in Keweenaw County Friday when he discovered a life ring off to the side of a blown-down tree. The ring was found 100 feet from the waters edge, up a rocky slope, 20 feet higher than the lake level, three feet into the trees, Joe said. The ring was not visible until he went up the bank, he said. Thinking nothing of it, Joe rolled the ring down the hill to his daughters. Joe’s youngest daughter Elizabeth, 10, caught the ring in her hands and turned it over. What was printed on the ring, they had never imagined: Edmund Fitzgerald.

“It sent a chill down my spine,” Joe said. “It’s the last thing I thought it was.”

Lyrics over the jump: Continue reading

just another suicide note

Ophelia

The suicide note of a young Victorian-era prostitute of New York, in its entirety:

Please bury me in my silk dress and bracelets

A simple request, yet what do you think are the chances that she was, in fact, buried in her silk dress and bracelets? The extant record (and this suicide note is the only proof we have that she ever existed) remains silent on the point. Those who sell love are often profoundly alone, never more than in their moment of need.

No explanations, no good-byes, no bequests. Regrets? We don’t know. Perhaps she regretted life itself, and all the rest was simply more of the same.

Did she even know who would find the note? Did she trust that person, was it someone she felt was a friend, or did she simply hope, in her last, most perfectly hopeless moments, that an unknown someone would find and honour the last request of an anonymous whore who probably looked so, so pretty in her silk dress and bracelets?

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