Interviewer: What were your first impressions of each other?
Rashida: I do remember, like, that semi–high school moment where I’m like, "Oh my God, she’s so cool. She shouldn’t be this cool for how talented she is and how pretty she is."
Amy: I’ve met a lot of my closest friends after I turned 30, and Rashida’s certainly one of them. It’s so nice to be able to find a like-minded person who you really admire. And who’s your homie.
Rashida: I’m going to cry.
Amy: I think you should title this sidebar "Straight-up Homies." And then you should write, "What’s happening now? They’re happening!" And then for the art, we don’t want our faces.
Rashida: Maybe some animals.
Amy: Or just like, will you superimpose our faces on the supermodels in the George Michael "Freedom! ‘90" video?
Rashida: Perfect. By the bathtub.
Jane Mayhall (1918-2009) wrote some of her most significant poetry in her eighties, after the death of her husband Leslie George Katz, the founder of the Eakins Press, to whom she was married for more than fifty years. Her grief poems are nearly always love poems; here, in the aftermath, she looks back on the anticipatory grief – the stunning invitation to loss – that coexists with true love.
All the lovers, denying, pretending
they didn’t know what was
coming. I knew ahead I might lose you.
Your coat sleeve, presences, topography, pricked my
recognition, through soul, a
Path to light, that angles darkness,
our lying in the grass on a
mountain, hoisted biographies in the fragmented clouds
we watched, it was clear as the winds
that changed them. Face of
fate, that didn’t
either have to be. Our incalculable
harmonies, bodies’ lithe fabrication, seascape,
weather, mountains, the luck
whatever of place. Fulfillment swathed like
ammunition in the breeze,
your familiar warm shoulder, prescience —
so good there was nothing to say,
just the right pages turning,
beyond the storm, threat to our love,
their harbor risk.
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Can’t believe I almost forgot that E.L.O. is the secret to happinesa