Hitting The Links: 9/28/25
Tons of great links, transcendence & ego-death in the MIA, little to no exercise, and more
The Virtual Memories Show News
A 2x/week email about a podcast about books & life
Guardians of the Shrine
I wrote this Thursday night in my hotel room:
I spit blood for a while this morning. A gash in my gum while brushing my teeth, the blood wouldn’t stop coming, and I wondered what housekeeping would make of the pink stains on the washcloth I used to wipe up my chin. They’ve seen it all.
Just a little cut, but I made it symbolic: It was sympathetic magic about Lance’s pulmonary edema, which I neglected to tell my client about during dinner, when he told us about his upcoming trip to Nepal to climb to the base camp of Everest with friends.
Telling him would have involved explaining Peter Matthiessen’s trek in the Himalayas to visit the Crystal Monastery in the 1970s, and how Lance wanted to retrace that trek for his biography of Matthiessen, but began coughing blood when he got to the monastery. And that would have led to my rambling about the podcast. Instead I kept silent, and the next morning, my mouth gushed blood.
But I was free until 2:30, so I visited the Minneapolis Institute of Art, on the recommendation of one of my clients.
At the Institute, I wandered among the first floor’s collection of artifacts and art from around the world. Early on, I encountered the cartonnage and coffin of Lady Tashat, the daughter of the provincial governor Djehutyhotep. The pieces were ornately decorated, and it was only when I read the wall description that I realized her remains remained. More than 2,700 years since her death, Lady Tashat was separated from me only by glass and her funerary vehicle, and the centuries.
I was shaken by that notion. The description noted how problematic it all is, and how the MIA acknowledges its responsibility for respectful care, “while also making it possible for you to admire the ingenuity and artistry of her cartonnage.”
I made my way through the collection, among idols and masks and tusks and tapestries and scrolls and Buddhas and antiquity and modern primitivism, with no sign of western or contemporary art, save a glance at a room centered on a Roman statue. I’d get to that later. For now I wanted to stay displaced, unmoored, out of my tradition.
I soon encountered the Tibetan Buddhist Shrine Room. From outside the doorway I could hear the low, rumbling chants from the speakers within, reminiscent of Glass’ soundtrack to Kundun, saw the golden buddhas shining atop inlaid cabinets in the recessed lighting, and I stepped into the dim chamber.
The shrine was blocked off by a wooden fence, so at a distance I looked at the sculptures and the carpets and the wall-hangings, the golden calves, all the buddhas in their states of repose, the chalices, the candles, and I heard the chanting and fell into the beauty of it all.
A woman stood near the center of the fence, and I stood beside her as we both took it in, and then I sat down on a padded bench in the rear of the room, to one side of the door. I touched each forefinger to thumb, lowered my head to look at the parquet floor, breathed deep, and in my mind I recited that mantra I learned from Matthiessen’s trek through Nepal: Oṃ maṇi padme hūm̐
I thought about the jewel in the lotus and looked at the colorful wall hangings, the myths in negative and the clocks and all the other inscrutable elements of the room, the procession of buddhas, the peacock feathers, all the gilt-bronze, and I thought about being dead the way I always try to do when I’m meditating.
Oṃ maṇi padme hūm̐. I stared at the votive candles arrayed in a line along the cabinet in the center of the display. They were electric, wavering slightly as programmed, and my mind said, “THE FLAMES ARE NOT REAL,” and that became my mantra. Soon my vision blurred and their illusion grew more indistinct.
I thought about my corpse-pose, and then of Lady Tashat in her cartonnage and my father in his shroud in an extra-deep grave so that his wife may someday join him. Young people walked into the room, whispered to each other, took pictures, and I thought someday they will walk across my grave.
I took out my notebook and began writing these words, and the woman sat down on the bench on the other side of the doorway, and she took out her own notebook and began writing.
The chanting over the speakers grew louder and more alien, and I understood we were the two sentries of the gate, and that one of us always wrote the truth
and the other always wrote lies,
but neither of us
knew which was
which.
Birdy Of The Week
Lazy Sunday for our girl:
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And now, let’s hit the links!
Links & Such
Recent Virtual Memories Show podcasts: Hunter Prosper • M.L. Rio • David Leopold • Dmitry Samarov • Ask Me Anything • Dan Goldman • David Levithan/Jens Lekman • Sacha Mardou
RIP MY QUEEN Claudia Cardinale . . . RIP Kaleb Horton . . . RIP Henry Jaglom . . . RIP Danny Thompson . . . RIP Jonathan Clements . . . RIP Zubeen Garg . . . RIP Ryan Easley . . . RIP Ron Jon . . . RIP Nancy Leonard . . . RIP Elijah Brubaker . . . RIP Assata Shakur . . .
Just like I’m here for off-the-rails NEOM stories, I revel in tales of the insane Waldorf-Astoria renovation. (Given the building’s ownership, I advise against using the in-house wifi.)
Interview with Fred Schneider of the B-52s? I am HERE for that, too.
Among other things I am here for: AMTRAK ROUTES TO NATIONAL PARKS.
Anahid Nersessian wrote about Jane Birkin, occasioned by the new biography.
Cullen Murphy reviewed Mort Walker’s Lexicon of Comicana, which NYRC just reissued and is a hoot.
Roland Allen was interviewed about what tools he uses for writing. Reminder: go read his history of the notebook; it’s a fantastic book.
Whither the dead artist’s NYC studio?
Good FIELD NOTES newsletter from Christopher Brown this morning.
David Marchese interviewed Sean Penn, and it’s worth a read.
The new billionaire class is weird and antisensual, sez Sarah Lyons.
Social Media Will Eat Itself. (That’s why I prefer this newsletter format.)
Current/Recent Reading
Immediacy: Or, The Style of Too Late Capitalism – Anna Kornbluh, but I haven’t been trying too hard; lots of critical jargon, which I don’t have the mindset or patience to parse
The Magic Mountain - Thomas Mann (tr. John E. Woods)
+ the mourner’s Kaddish every morning, in Aramaic
Sound Body, Fractured Mind
Only worked out Monday (weights) and Tuesday (yoga) due to work, travel, friend-visit, and other excuses. Missed a few days of meditation, but it looks like I made up for it in transcendence at the art institute.
Until Next Time
Thanks for reading this far! I’ll back on Wednesday, with a new episode, maybe a throwback Instax, and maybe some art. On Sunday I’ll be back with links, books, & workout craziness, & maybe a little profundity or something.
There is a park that is known for the face it attracts / Colorful people whose hair on one side is swept back / The smile on their faces, it speaks of profound inner peace / Ask where they’re going, they’ll tell you nowhere,