“All My Friends” is about aging, feeling disconnected, simultaneously reckoning with and missing your past. James Murphy turned 37 the year it was released, and it should appeal to people in their 30s. And yet Murphy’s impressionistic verses evoke more widespread experiences than chronologically approaching middle age. This millennium was kicked off with 9/11, and as it progressed we became able to carry entire decades of pop culture and history in our pockets. All of this ages us before our time, whether these were the years in which we grew up, or whether these were the years where we ourselves had children.”You spent the first five years trying to get with the plan/ And the next five years trying to be with your friends again,” Murphy sings. That could be about the struggles of aging and figuring yourself out, but it could also be about the seeming impossibility of navigating the people and culture around you when 2010 suggests 2001, 1987, 1964, and 1999 as much as it suggests itself.
To live in New York is to constantly be a borrower. I’m not talking about money here, although that is part of it too. Instead, it’s the fleeting sense of possession that imbues living in the city. That table at a nice brunch place? That patch of grass in the park? That seat on a crowded cross-town bus? It’s only yours briefly and often hard-fought too. This is true everywhere – time’s river flows and fills all voids – but it seems intensified in New York.
Please be aware that due to the nature of the James Turrell installation, museum capacity is reduced and wait times will be affected as a result.
While your advance tickets purchased online will not allow you to bypass admission lines completely, you will be able to join the priority pre-paid admission queue for museum entrance.
just received this email from the guggenheim’s visitor services department.
i think we’ll be doing a lot of patient waiting on this trip.
good thing we’re basically devoting an entire day to each museum. we’ll be there when they open and then we’ll stay as long as we can.
It seems to me that sloth and procrastination may be connected to Eros. To desire, which in its early stages is filled with the volatile, chemical reaction of new love. The procrastinator delays climax, that final, deflating groan. You let the book evade you, torment you, lead you on, promise you delight, and then leave you locked out at the gate. And yet the whole time you are both the prisoner and the inquisitor. But you are happy because the pursuit is still on. There is something to look forward to, to seek, to hunt, to wake toward. This is the procrastinator as a philosopher of desire
Elvis Bego, “The Procrastinator as a Philosopher of Desire”