Stephen Mejias

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You Are My Spring and My Beauty

For the last couple of days, I've been listening to one special CD from start to finish, and over and over again. I don't want it to ever end. Elizabeth must be sick of it. I'm sorry, Elizabeth. But, no: she's not sick of it because she understands. She knows what this is all about. And when I'm not listening to it, I'm holding onto it tightly, smiling over the lovely cover of sweethearts and peaches, reading the song titles from top to bottom and then from bottom to top. Memorizing the shade of red, imagining her hands putting it all together.

Your Mother is a Vampire

I'm listening to Margot & the Nuclear So and So's now. They sing songs about vampires and kittens, mice and clowns. You might like them. Their story is one of poverty and despair and desolation thwarted by sudden friendship, a burst of creativity, and life on the road. It sounds familiar, but then not. They make music with trumpets and cellos and keys.

Zola Jesus: The Spoils

It was a bit of good fortune. It was a rainy Saturday afternoon in late August. It was the perfect thing at the perfect time, like Hemingway in autumn or Whitman in winter or a lot of stuff I can't think of right now&#151nothing refreshing, but something comforting: chocolate after wine, the smell of someone familiar when you're feeling all alone, I don't know. Monica had just called to tell me that she was back from her trip; she wanted to meet for a drink. I know very well that Monica is not the right person for me, but sometimes the right person is not what you need, is not the right thing at the right time.

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