October Dispatch
boo!
There is a beautiful autumn tree on Dean Street, towards the border of Bed-Stuy and Crown Heights. It’s leaves have already changed to a deep red, though the air hasn’t quite turned crisp yet. There is a poster for a missing dog named Diamond taped to the construction site underneath the tree. I observe that Diamond bears an uncanny resemblance to Boris Johnson. A red leaf floats to the ground. Later it will absorb the autumn rain, and in the morning it will curl up into itself.
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Jenny Offill and Lydia Millet came into the wine bar I work at ahead of a book talk they were doing the other day. I wasn’t familiar with Lydia’s work, but I recognized Jenny on sight — she said I was one of a handful of people to ever recognize her in public. She was very kind, and noted that she felt “autofiction” was a term critics traditionally reserved for female authors. I told her: “Don’t worry, my graduate thesis is going to change all that.” I poured the writers more orange wine and placed a dish of mixed olives in front of them. Another customer let me know the restroom had run out of paper towels. In that moment, I felt infinite.
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If you are looking for the perfect Halloween film to watch while curled up on the couch with your partner, I highly recommend Nobuhiko Obayashi’s ‘70s Japanese classic House, which you can find on Criterion. Don’t look it up ahead of time — just get ready for a fun time and trust that you’ve never seen anything quite like it before.
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