In today's column, Jonny Sava considers the potent dangers of arriving in a physical location without first taking the time to arrive in the present moment.
Laurie Anderson may have been a better artist. Andy Warhol may have been a better businessman. John Cale may have been a better musician. Moe Tucker may have been more teeth-gnashingly primal in her populism (I mean, she worked at Wal-Mart, for christ’s sake). And Doug Yule may have been prettier. But no one was more Lou Reedier than Lou Reed.
I admit it, I’m straight-up a sucker for Christmas. But then again, I grew up in Iowa, in a frosty little burg bordering a sliver of the Mississippi River where on the worst days of winter it can feel like the wind is opening up your bones with a box-cutter and pouring in jiggers of liquefied woe. Those of you in California, or the BosWash megalopolis, or other areas bordering the ocean cannot comprehend how bad it can get—you at least have the illusion of not being boxed in on all sides, of being able to escape to a Bahama or a Turk & Caico at a moment’s notice. We’re too deeply interior to allow for even the illusion of escape to mean anything. I mean, where would we go? In every direction, Midwest and more Midwest, stockades of ice, and somewhere beyond that, Canada.