Pavarotti’s voice

Photo by MustangJoe

Dear Daddy,

Today I read an article about mascarpone cheese and how else to use it, since it’s just been languishing in my fridge. There’s a suggestion of mixing it with scrambled eggs, and I did—and I fell in love.

Other things I’m in love with today: my soft grey blanket that I pulled from the closet because my feet were getting cold while reading, a little red car I spied from the balcony, Japanese cheesecake, Pavarotti’s voice, and a video of a big fat frog on top of a spinning record (it was playing Can’t Take My Eyes Off You).

I wish I was living in a Studio Ghibli forest right now.

This TIME article talked about Pavarotti in beautiful language:

“…he had a Rabelaisian appetite for food and fun…”

“Taking his bows, he spread wide his enormous stevedore arms in a gesture of embrace, often flaunting a trademark white handkerchief that was approximately the size of Rhode Island.”

“His voice…radiated a gorgeously warm romantic sheen.”

“As applause cascaded over him, he visibly inhaled it like life-giving oxygen…”

I don’t know how to fight this sometimes, the dark days.

Here’s another poem I love:

The Sweetness of Dogs
Mary Oliver

What do you say, Percy? I am thinking
of sitting out on the sand to watch
the moon rise. It’s full tonight.
So we go

and the moon rises, so beautiful it
makes me shudder, makes me think about
time and space, makes me take
measure of myself: one iota
pondering heaven. Thus we sit, myself

thinking how grateful I am for the moon’s
perfect beauty and also, oh! how rich
it is to love the world. Percy, meanwhile,
leans against me and gazes up
into my face. As though I were just as wonderful
as the perfect moon.

I adore you.


“I have no fear of your femaleness…I would not have it otherwise. You see, in spite of all my intimations, I was not quite prepared for the tempest you invoked.”

— Henry Miller, in a letter to Anaïs Nin, 10 March 1932

“…[I am] terribly, terribly alive, pained, and feeling absolutely that I need you…drunk with desire to write you…Anaïs, stand by me. Don’t let the silences worry you: you are all around me like a bright flame…I want space and time for you…I want to get more familiar with you…I hear again the way you say my name…I want always to see you laughing. It belongs to you…Anaïs, when I think of how you press against me, how eagerly you open your legs and how wet you are, God, it drives me mad to think what you would be like when everything falls away…I thought of you, of your pressing your legs against me standing up, of the room tottering, of falling on you in darkness and knowing nothing.”

— Henry Miller, in a letter to Anaïs Nin, 11 March 1932

“Anaïs—All I can say is that I am mad about you. I tried to write a letter and couldn’t. I am writing you constantly—in my head and the days pass and I wonder what you will think…it torments me to see you for just a few hours and then surrender you. When I see you all that I wanted to say vanishes—the time is so precious and words are extraneous. But you make me so happy—because I can talk to you. I love your brightness, your preparations for flight, your legs like a visa, the warmth between your legs. Yes, Anaïs, I want to damask you…Anaïs, I don’t know how to tell you what I feel. I live in a perpetual expectancy. You come and the time slips away in a dream. It is only when you go that I realise completely your presence. And then it is too late…

…I am going to demand everything of you—even the impossible, because you encourage it…I want you. I want to undress you, vulgarise you a bit…I want to own you, use you. I want to fuck you, I want to teach you things…I want to go places with you—possess you. You don’t know how insatiable I am. Or how dastardly. And how selfish!…I love your cunt, Anaïs—it drives me crazy. And the way you say my name! God, it’s unreal…

…Can I say anything to you? I can, can’t I?…Wrap your legs around me. Warm me.”

— Henry Miller, in a letter to Anaïs Nin, 21 March 1932

They said Pavarotti once said this: “People think I’m disciplined. It is not discipline. It is devotion. There is a great difference.”

I adore you.

T. xx

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