"Tim Buckley, Wally Cox, cioppino, finely woven hats from Jipijapa, Ecuador, Omega Constellation Tuning Fork, a Facel-Vega, Ortega y Gassett*, St. Mathurin, blowing off a quid nunc, Bokonovski's Process, San Miguel cathedral near the canal zone, Joss Stone, Chingy, a joyous Sprachgefuhl, some wild random jaspers, knowing all the names for all the parts of a shoe, maundering like this, just enough slanting light to make it all renewably and pleasurably futile, the Daughters of Mara, sweet company, realizing I'm a different person, oscillating string theory, amber/maroon/Davies Gray/charcoal gray/prussian blue, realizing I'm the same person, reading something online that makes me write this, Tim Hardin, a good, good mind, funny-as-hell motherfuckers, naranjino juice, a very personal god, grapefruit from Santo Domingo de los Colorados, not Easthampton/not Southhampton/but Lionel Hampton, machas a la parmesana, Italian food in B.A., a 1952 Macul, Fred Neil, Koenig Ludwig Doppeldunklas, a good old uncle, the way drag queens always think they've got a very good chance of getting someone from his girlfriend, braised apricots, that you probably don't think Velasquez' Las Meninas is the best painting in the world, Goose Prairie, Death Valley, Miles motherfucking Davis, Mendocino, Sketches of Spain, Andechs Brau, the first time I really smell somebody and it's almost undecipherable but I know it's good, Cabana-style architecture (writing an article on it now) Chateau Palmer, Horace Silver, The American Friend, my years as a fashion columnist, foreign assignments, the dog I don't have, the Cuban national boxing team--and girl...jesus, I know, but...girl--yes, I'm sorry, no I'm not...but...yes. *he was the one who said: "Life is fired at us point blank." Janis Ian, Allende's house in Vina del Mar, quiet appreciation, balance (rare in this corner), Norway, pretty much dig brunettes but Tilda Swinton and Cate Blanchett rock, irony especially when I'm the butt of the slur, being cucumarucu, discovering the unseen correspondent has a calculable babe factor, lonnnnnggg drives, your hand on my thigh, anything that's not all about some kind of fantasy of empowerment, not procrastinating, the Camera Obscura (I used to go there when I was feeling spiked by marvel), Slim &; Elaine at the Bel Air Jazz Club in Barbados, a 47' Sparkman-Stephens New York 32, er, ass--and John Lautner's Space Pod house."
Music
Television
INFLUENCES
"Angle of Repose; White Noise; Moby Dick; A Separate Peace; Another Roadside Attraction; The Book of Daniel; I, Wabenzi; Paris Spleen; The Yankee Bandit (by me); The Heights of Macchu Picchu; Strange Pilgrims (short stories by Garcia Marquez); Norwegian Wood; The White Album (Joan Didion is a singular beautiful soul); anything, good or bad, on particle physics and the theory of it all (except The Hole in the Universe, a stupendously bad book on black holes by a USC professor the rottenness of which even my unslakeable thirst for science I don't really understand couldn't overcome); nothing by Jay MacInerny; Goose Prairie &; the Ira Ford Family(by my dad); The Red and The Black; 100 Poems from the Chinese (edited by Rexroth)"
Books
A FEW WORDS
Timothy Ford died in his home in Hollywood after having suffered a heart attack somewhere in the early morning hours of May 31, 2007. He had been working on 'The Yankee Bandit', a script about the infamous plaid shirt bank robber, Eddie Datson. Tim was 56 years old. Tim was found next to a can of Diet Shasta by a friend.
"1994. It was on Hollywood Boulevard, kitty-corner from Musso and Frank's, where Faulkner’s martinis seep out of dark wood. But I was across the street, across the tenderloin riff-raff of the Boulevard, through a generation of Armenian and Israeli and Korean and Arab t-shirt shops, in one of those two-story buildings that noir detective stories were written in. Transom. Cracked white-tile bathrooms. The sweat of Boardner’s Bar seeps through these floorboards. The smoky rankness was like a fondly recalled lover--which is more than you can say for Faulkner. It’s the smell of that moment in some bar, long ago, when a clever young gal, anxious for my attention, compared my letters to Stegner, Carver and Brautigan all wrapped into one. Or so I tried to sell myself--to keep going amidst the stench."
Who I'd like to meet:
PERHAPS MEET. . .
a woman who turns her intelligence, heart and flukiness into something sexy, especially if she's a babe already...
Tim, I am really missing you and our long late night conversations. It's hard to go to bed without you telling me to. I'm living my life according to our master plan. Soon, the shoes you wished for me will be all mine. And, I still can't get that damned Naked If I Want To song out of my head which is sweet because I hear you singing it.
So, so you think you can tell heaven from hell blue skies from pain? Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rain? a smile from a veil? Did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts hot ashes for trees, hot air for a cool breeze cold comfort for change? And did you exchange a walk on part in the war for a lead role in the cage?
How I wish, how I wish you were here
We were just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl year after year running over the same old ground What have we found… The same old fears?
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