"A friend asked yesterday if this blog is addressed to anyone in particular? I said yes– it’s a love letter to someone I haven’t met yet."
I Wish I Were in Love Again
by Lorenz Hart
The sleepless nights,
The daily fights,
The quick toboggan when you reach the heights--
I miss the kisses and I miss the bites.
I wish I were in love again!
The broken dates,
The endless waits,
The lovely loving and the hateful hates,
The conversation with the flying plates--
I wish I were in love again!
No more pain,
No more strain,
Now I'm sane, but ...
I would rather be punch drunk!
The pulled-out fur of cat and cur,
The fine mismating of a him and her--
I've learned my lesson, but I
Wish I were in love again.
The furtive sigh,
The blackened eye,
The words 'I'll love you till the day I die',
The self-deception that believes the lie--
I wish I were in love again.
When love congeals
It soon reveals
The faint aroma of performing seals,
The double-crossing of a pair of heels.
I wish I were in love again!
No more care.
I'm all there now,
But I'd rather be punch-drunk!
Believe me, sir,
I much prefer
The classic battle of a him and her.
I don't like quiet and I
Wish I were in love again!
I was reading a biography of a famous contemporary writer. Turns out that in real life the guy was a jerk-- pompous,selfish, cruel and other ugly things as well. We are always disappointed to learn that our heroes have feet of clay. But then it struck me that most heroes, particularly artistic ones, are jerks in one way or another. They're self-absorbed or stingy, mean-spirited or they're terrible parents... Why? Because they're obsessed. Obsession unbalances anyone. If most of your energy goes into your rug collection, your career, or your lover, then you are "tilting" who you are to one side or the other. You are choosing to be unbalanced. You are saying this is more important to me than that. As a result, "that" always suffers. No one wrote more beautifully about family life than Tolstoy, but apparently he was a dreadful husband and father. Why? Simply because he was so busy writing about perfect love that he had no interest in trying to live it in real life. The actress Rita Hayworth said she never had any luck with men because they all expected her to be Gilda-- her most famous film role. But she was never able to live up to that fictional character. In other words, she put all of her best sexy into her work and apparently didn't have enough left over for real life.
an interesting one from ON:
"The past is always carried into the present by small things."
"Being a professional is doing the things you love to do, on the days you don't feel like doing them."
Even when things end badly, there are radiant moments or experiences with failed loves that are permanently written into one's history. Strawberries. When they came into full season in spring, she always remembered the day he brought her the strawberries. They were meeting at two and then driving out into the country. She'd had a harried morning in town. Her head was full of irrelevant stuff and tizzy when his car pulled to the curb in front of her. Reaching forward, she opened the door without thinking. She just wanted to be sitting still for the first time in hours, moving towards the country and silence, away from this. She needed a few seconds to grasp what was on the passenger's seat. Beige and bright bursting red, it was a rectangular wooden box filled with three pounds of the fattest, ripest strawberries she had ever seen. They were so big, so red and sensuous, particularly against the pale brown of the wood, that she was mesmerized. It took moments to return to the world around her. Only then did she look at him. He was grinning, thrilled that his surprise had been such a hit with her. "I saw them at a roadside stand and couldn't resist. We'll eat them on the way out to the country." And they did.
Things turned ugly between them later, very ugly. But like some kind of lovely curse, after that day she could not see strawberries without thinking of him.
The BareNaked Ladies in the bathroom:
Midday. Lunchtime is over and the restaurants have emptied out. The only ones lingering there are the lovers and the solitary drinkers. The waiters are half-heartedly putting things back in order. At some places you see them sitting at corner tables with a cup of coffee and reading the newspaper. There's time now before the evening rush. Relax a while, take a breather in the screen-saver world of mid afternoon. Although the weather is warm and sunny, the old people out for their afternoon stroll are bundled up and frequently wearing large sunglasses against the sun's glare. Passing the outdoor cafes, they stare with real interest at whoever is sitting there, taking it all in. I never understand why you don't see more old people at cafes. They love to sit and watch the world go by, but usually only in parks or public places where one doesn't have to order anything to sit. Dog walkers zigzag down the sidewalks, following their pets which are thrilled to be here and able to sniff everything they can get their noses against. Kids out from school travel in large packs together, loud, pushing and hitting each other, laughing both happily and meanly, making themselves heard above all others. They are like those clusters of small insects that buzz through the summer air. Dense, flying close together, they annoy you a moment when they fly in your face but then are gone. People dawdle or window shop without any real interest. More than one of them yawn that special kind of three-in-the-afternoon yawn. Half the day is past, the charged half. Everything from here on is quieter, in another key altogether.
Every day I pass a store that has large advertisements in the window for the various magazines they sell. These ads are almost always of the latest front covers, invariably featuring news and gossip about famous movie and media stars. Today it struck me when I saw and thought about the magazines that no matter what these people do, it's fabulous. If they break up with a long time love, "I feel so great being free again." If they make a movie that flops, "It was a wonderful learning experience." If they lose weight to the point of anorexia, "It was a battle, but she won it." Or gain weight "I don't care what people think how I look. This is the real me and I'm finally being honest with myself." A messy divorce, drug rehab, or an abrupt career change? No problem. "Singing had become empty for me. I finally admitted to myself that what I really wanted to do was sell cactus." There's always a way to spin situations so that these golden people appear to have triumphed once again over the kinds of experiences that frequently cuts the rest of us lowly mortals off at the knees.
She was complaining about the fact that there are no good single men around. Having heard this before from a number of women, I asked has any man, any stranger, ever come up to you and said something so interesting, funny or intriguing that you thought "I *have* to know who this guy is?" And then accepted his invitation for coffee or a drink? She smiled as if I was out of my mind and said of course not. I've asked women that question for years and only one said yes, she had a drink with a stranger after he approached her in a bar and said a compelling opening line. The irony is she didn't remember what he said. But whatever it was, she liked it and they began talking. I've also spoken with men about this and they said the same thing-- there really is no way to make "cold contact" with a woman you see on the street who makes you go "wow." I'm not talking about sleazy lines, dreary cliches, stupid openers, or the "how could anyone even *think* of saying that?" verbal stumbles. I'm talking about nice guy sees nice girl and wants to make contact. Maybe she even wants him to make contact. He walks up to her (which takes a lot of courage, ladies) and says X. The way things are these days, even if he has the greatest opening line of the century, it ain't going to happen. IMHO.
This in from A on the subject:
"I can think of a few men I have dated or just had sex with whom I met in bars and one who I lived with for 3 years.
Not what I would do all the time, even back 10 years ago but fun and worth it. Sadly we live in a world that says be safe at all costs rather than take a risk."
K says this:
It's definitely happened that a man has said one thing to spark my interest right away and make me want to know him better, or even go home with him. It's that instant recognition of someone you're going to enjoy. However, it never happens when a guy comes up to me at a bar with obvious intent, because the situation is too fraught for me to be open to him. It's not out of fear for my "safety" per se. The more likely danger is simply that if I am friendly to someone who's making a move on me, he'll take it as an irrevocable invitation to hit on me, and then I'll be stuck dealing with him and fending him off if my initial flash of interest doesn't pan out.
So I think what's needed is a way for the man to say that interesting thing to a woman in a situation where she's free to respond to it without fear that he'll be hanging around her neck for the rest of the night. Within a group of friends is perfect.
While walking up the street I hear someone shouting, laughing, talking incoherently. People nearby have that alarmed look on their faces that says they hear it too and it's disturbing. The closer I get to a certain doorway the louder the noise becomes. Finally I'm there and see where it is coming from: a homeless one- legged woman is sitting in the doorway screaming at the world. There's no one else with her, only her black crutches propped up against a wall keeping her company. I walk a little faster to get away. About fifteen minutes later I'm sitting in a fast food restaurant on the other side of the street. Who walks into the place but the shouter. With a mouthful of food I think-- uh oh. But I'm close enough to the door so that if she freaks out I can leave easily. There are quite a few people at the counter waiting for food. She slowly makes her way to the back of one line and waits. The line moves slowly but she makes no fuss. Finally her turn comes and although I'm too far away to hear the exchange, I watch the server to see if they grow a wary or strange look on their face as she orders. Nothing. Some time passes and her food arrives. Digging into her pocket, the woman pays and turns to leave. Walking slowly out of the restaurant, she has a small smile on her face. Peaceful. They're playing good music so I stay a while after finishing to listen. When I leave, I immediately hear the familiar sound of screaming and laughing somewhere. Squinting toward that familiar doorway, I see she is back there hollering.
Oranges in a Tree
by Alberto Rios
The oranges in a tree won't fly away
If you're quiet. If you're quiet
You can see them in their nests--
Loud in the song of their great need,
Mouths tethered to the green beaks
That feed them, hushing their cries,
Polishing their infant noises into color,
That unmistakable sound, orange.
If you make noise, enough of a noise
And not just anything, a noise equal to theirs,
The oranges take flight
In a spin of movement that's dizzying
But which takes weeks.
Some fall to the ground in the excitement,
Falling from the fear of what you said.
So many fall this way.
But some escape. Some move up,
Racing, onto the avenue of the birds,
Speeding at first, unruly and desperate
To get away. You can't see them,
They're so fast. You can't see them
Until they slow down, these oranges
In the air. They use up their color as food,
Finding places to hide, but they are plain enough
In a new rabbit's eye, in the faraway
Lights of small towns, in falling stars, in the contrails
In the sky, in sudden sounds, orange sounds.
But those that land inside us, those that find their stopping point
Just where we stand: Those we feel
As flight inside ourselves, as the moment
We leave-- how hard it is!--
The place where we have been.
As human beings,
We have a long history with birds.
We have eaten them as chickens and pigeons,
Doves and turkeys. We have caged them for amusement,
Made them fight each other for sport.
We have imitated their whistles and used up
The magic in their feathers.
After centuries, some birds have given themselves up
To this fate: They huddle themselves
Tightly as they can into anything but what they are--
They began to look like oranges and grapefruit,
Melons and squash. These were the birds
Who gave up flight, who gave up the air and the wandering.
Scientists have traced oranges back to oranges
They did not know
To look for wings in the folds of the white rind.
After a long relationship had ended and another even more important one began, the editor Leo Lerman wrote in his journal:"I thought that I had nothing much to give anyone-- affection, yes, and some knowledge-- but nothing of the deep within. Now my heart (I use this only as a shorthand, a sort of representation) is whole again-- richer, fuller. It has been made whole for me, because I have been and I am loved."
Waiting on line at the checkout counter, the woman in front of me is holding only a very large colorful box of dog biscuits. The man in front of her is buying many things. So it takes a while for the cashier to add up the cost of his purchases. In the meantime, the woman opens up the box of biscuits and starts to eat them. She doesn't take out one, nibble a corner to see what a dog biscuit tastes like, and then put the rest back into the box. No, she takes out a handful and eats them as if they were potato chips, one after the other. The biscuits are about mid size and she eats three very quickly. I smile at first but then stop smiling when she sticks her hand back in the box, takes out more, and eats these too. She moves forward in the line. Handing the open box to the cashier, she puts the last biscuit she's holding in her mouth and chews. From the bored look in her eye, the cashier seems unaware that this customer is eating the dog biscuits she's buying. For one second I think I've imagined the whole thing. Maybe I'm going nuts! Turning to the man behind me, I see him smiling. He raises his eyebrows and says quietly "Woof woof."
Most romantic line heard in a long time:
"I wouldn't trade you for an acre of pregnant red hogs."
I know two kinds of adults. One carries inside himself the dead child that he once was. The other is a very rare kind of adult, who carries inside himself a living child-- curious, thirsty for love, thirsty for knowledge...
"When I come to lie in your arms, you sometimes ask me in which historical moment do I wish to exist. And I will say Paris, the week Colette died... Paris, August 3rd, 1954. In a few days, at her state funeral, a thousand lilies will be placed on her grave, and I want to be there, walking that avenue of wet lime trees until I stand beneath the second floor apartment that belonged to her in the Palais- Royal. The history of people like her fills my heart. She was a writer who remarked that her only virtue was self-doubt."
Michael Ondaatje, DIVISADERO
On German television they were interviewing an FBI profiler about the killings in Virginia this week. He made two observations that were particularly eerie. One of the few things mass murderers of this sort apparently have in common (when interviewed after their crimes) is that all of them previously played a lot of video shooting games. According to the agent, constantly playing these games honed their abilities, making the killers both calm and proficient when the real thing happened. Like pilots who train on flight simulators, the shooters had practiced so much that when they acted, they were both adept and unemotional. Also they were used to games where you have to shoot your opponent numerous times to kill him. Otherwise he revives and keeps coming back. The FBI man said he has frequently interviewed young men who shot people in real life and then were genuinely surprised when their victims didn't get up again after they were shot the first time, as is always the case in video games.
The List of Good Names
by Robert Fanning
Tonight, in the family style
pizzeria, we speak of having a child
some day. On a napkin smudged red
where the leaky felt tip lingered,
I watch meteors, sperm and tadpoles
cross the paper sky, as you
draw up a list of good names.
Looking at the list, I'm a substitute
teacher practicing attendance
before the class arrives:
Isabella, Gabriel, Rose. Who will be
the bookworm, the athlete, the clown?
Around us, the families finish
dinner, pack into minivans and leave.
The pimpled waiter picks up
broken crayons, wipes sauce
from a plastic high chair,
unplugs the video game.
Soon the room's as silent
as a doll shop after hours.
When I'm ready to speak, above
the ticking of the clock, my rubber
lips click. Whispering the list's
first name, I hear the voice
I used when I spoke your name
the first time-- that voice I've used
when I try the name of an unknown
plant, or when I'm scared, or when
I pray, or when I know a stranger
now listens in the next booth,
the one I thought was vacant.
Old loves. They enter your thoughts unexpectedly, like a flash of summer lightning at night. They blast open a part of the sky pure phosphorescent white a moment, and then are gone. A memory is lit, or a few-- a meal together, an hour when nothing could be better than right now. The look in their eye that day you sat together by the river. Maybe if the memory is particularly strong, a shiver slides along your heart like an ice cube down your back. But then unless you are haunted or were ruined by this person, life goes back to a moment ago. You straighten up, take a long breath, and move forward. Maybe part of you looks once over your shoulder to see if, impossibly, they are there behind you again. But they never are.
Lovers who love truly do not write down their happiness.
One of the famous cosmetics companies is promoting a new line of mascara called "Inimitable." It reminded me of something I noticed a while ago--Sometimes it seems the only ones who consciously choose multi-syllable (and often obscure) words to promote their products are either cosmetics companies or Death Metal bands. On numerous occasions I've seen kids wearing t-shirts advertising in bloody letters metal groups named things like "Desuetude" and "Arsis." Who the hell thought those names up? Four grungy looking guys are sitting around thinking. One of them sticks his finger in the air and says joyfully, "I've got it! We'll call the band Desuetude!" and everyone there goes yeah yeah, Desuetude. Or a romantic couple are having dinner by candlelight and the man says, "Darling, you look lovely tonight. Is it because you're wearing Inimitable?"
PS Maybe "Desuetude" *is* a better name than "Goatwhore," "Impetigo," "War From a Harlot's Mouth," or "Cattle Decapitation," all real names of metal bands.
Sometimes you get a crush on certain words and then use them until they lose their flavor, like a new piece of chewing gum. "Tiresome" is one I've rediscovered recently and like a lot. I was watching a DVD of a famous shock comedian do a routine about 9/11. His humor was supposed to be extreme and provocative ("I don't understand why everybody talks so much about 9/11. What happened on that day? I know that a lot of sports events were cancelled..."), but his monologue wasn't even worth a cringe. It was only tiresome, like a young child who discovers that the word "fuck" makes adults jump, so he uses it whenever he wants attention. The way to get the kid to stop is by not reacting when he says that radioactive word. If you spend any time watching comedy clips on TV or YouTube these days, it's plain that way too many comedians have degenerated into trying only to be outrageous rather than genuinely funny. If I have the balls to do a comic routine about 9/11, that Ground Zero of human suffering, then the taboo subject alone is enough to make my audience gasp. But in truth it doesn't really-- it's just an adult version of the little kid saying his four letter word. Tiresome.
"Let it Be" Russian style:
Dear Mr. Carroll,
I read your recent blog (4/11) with real interest about writing imaginary letters to people we know. For years I have done what I guess could be called the opposite-- what would I write (or say) in response to letters I received from them? When an important boyfriend and I broke up, for a long time afterwards I thought about what would I say if he asked if we could try again. Or what would I say if he wrote and blamed me for everything. Or what I would say if... You see what I mean. Over the years I have frequently written "phantom letters" in my head in answer to mail I either hoped or feared would arrive one day. Those letters (or phonecalls, emails, etcetera) rarely arrived, but somehow it was therapeutic to imagine how I would respond to them-- either way.
by Elizabeth Bishop
My love, my saving grace,
your eyes are awfully blue.
I kiss your funny face,
your coffee-flavored mouth.
Last night I slept with you.
Today I love you so
how can I bear to go
(as soon I must, I know)
to bed with ugly death
in that cold, filthy place,
to sleep there without you,
without the easy breath
and nightlong, limblong warmth
I've grown accustomed to?
Nobody wants to die;
tell me it is a lie!
But no, I know it's true.
It's just the common case;
there's nothing one can do.
My love, my saving grace,
your eyes are awfully blue
early and instant blue.
I just read an article that says the two most searched subjects on the Internet these days are Britney Spears and Knut the baby polar bear. I'm still trying to figure out what that says about the online community....
No woman looks good chewing gum. No man looks good wearing gold chains.
Upon hearing of the death of someone she detested, the novelist Isabel Allende shrugged and said, "Death does not make you a nicer person."
In Saul Bellow's novel HERZOG, the troubled main character writes letters he knows he'll never send to people-- living and dead, famous and not-- as a way of getting things off his chest. Someone told me that after reading HERZOG, they adopted the same practice.Only this man writes letters he never sends just to people in his life. To an ex- girlfriend describing how much he still misses her. To a clueless work colleague suggesting how they could improve their performance in the job, etcetera. I thought it was an interesting idea but asked if he didn't feel frustrated knowing the recipients would never get them and know how he felt. He said no not really. He spent a great deal of time writing and phrasing his phantom letters. By devoting so much care to them, he learned to pinpoint exactly how he felt about these matters and that alone was reason enough to continue doing it. It reminded me of the novelist who said something like, "I write to discover what I truly believe."
Bad love affairs, bad timing, bad mood, bad breath, bad dog... We live our days moving through varieties of bad. But it is mostly a minor thing, mundane 'shit on the bottom of your shoe' stuff. A bad taste, a bad kisser, the bad view which permits us to see just enough to annoy us that we can't see more. They are all minor irritants, dust in the eye sort of annoyances. Because the word itself carries little psychic weight anymore. 'Bad' is today's verbal shrug. In contrast, in the old days if you said someone was a "bad" woman, that one word in certain contexts could ruin a person. Now if you say she is a bad woman, you're asked to be more specific. We rarely raise an eyebrow or a fuss when bad barges into our lives again. We don't jump back or stagger when faced with bad smells, bad breaks, bad advice. Maybe we blink or pause, but then we continue. Bad in any form is rarely powerful enough to knock us out or stop us cold. At heart it has become a wannabe, a pretender to the throne, the player who sits on the bench the whole season because he's simply not good enough to be in the starting lineup.
Found this hair raiser at Daron Larson's always interesting website(daronlarson.blogspot.com):
created by: www.runwrake.com
Today is Easter, so let's talk resurrection. But my question is this-- What part of yourself would you most like to bring back to life if it were possible? Perhaps that courage, energy, belief, trust, or hope you once had, but over the years has leaked out of your soul? Or the intensity you once felt about various things? What *do* you feel intensely about today? Many of us must think hard and if it happens to be a really dark time in our lives, we don't come up with enough or much at all. Secondly, is it even possible to resurrect such things in ourselves? I don't know, but it's something on my mind today.
A good one from KM:
Years ago at the Viennese flea market I bought an old full length leather coat for a few dollars. It looked like one of those coats Nazi officers wore in WW2. It was a beautiful thing, well made but so heavy and stiff that I wore it only in the coldest weather and always with the collar turned up. One Christmas I went to New York and took the coat along. A novelist friend and I arranged to have lunch together. He had just turned in the manuscript of a new work to his publisher. The editor there read it but said a lot of changes had to be made before the book was ready for publication. My friend disagreed and there was a tense standoff going on between the two men. The day we met was very cold and I wore the coat to lunch. He couldn't stop admiring it and saying how ominous it looked, especially because I had just had my hair cut very short and together with the coat, the whole look was very Max Van Sydow- sinister. Halfway through our meal, he asked if I would do him a favor: After lunch, would I accompany him to his editor's office? And after we were introduced, would I say to this editor in a heavy German accent, "His new book is very good. Why do you want him to change it?" I thought he was joking but he wasn't. So after lunch we walked over to the publisher's office and I did my thing. The editor was a man whose square black glasses framed his face like 2 TV screens. I was introduced as Till, a German "friend." After a pause I said my lines and then just stood there staring intently at him in my scary coat and cut. The editor looked quickly from my friend to me, and then back at my friend. Neither of us said a word. Was this a joke? Was it serious? Who was this guy Till? My friend let the tension go on a few more seconds then mysteriously smiling and nodding his head, said goodbye to the editor and we walked out.
ON checks in with this one:
"Art is permanent accusation."
Surfing around personal photo websites like www.flickr.com, it's interesting to see how saturated all of them are with self-portraits. It appears that a very large number of photographers who go public with their work are obsessed with taking pictures either of themselves or parts of themselves-- hands, feet, shoes, etcetera. In writing, there is a large Maginot Line between writing only for yourself and writing with an audience in mind. Simply put, the difference between keeping a private diary and keeping a blog. At one time or other for any number of reasons, we all take pictures of ourselves. It's fun, it's vain, it's a nice lick to the ego if the pictures turn out well. Especially now with digital photography which is so satisfyingly instant. But to think seven or seventy-seven photos of yourself are going to be interesting to the world at large is a whole other way of thinking.
I haven't been writing anything here the last few days because I've been dutifully reading through all the past blog entries (over 700, if you can believe that) to choose the best ones for inclusion in the English edition of EYE OF THE DAY-- the blog book. Mobius New Media will be publishing it in a limited edition and selling it only here on the website. We'll keep you posted on its progress. As of now, there will be about 360 entries, or one for each day of a year that has in reality stretched from July of 2004 until today. A lot of people have written in over the years saying they would much rather read this journal as a book held in their hands than online, and we're happy to oblige. Stay tuned for further developments and once again, thank you for keeping me company here. The pleasure has been all mine.
click through the "choose a scenester" choices and read the descriptions
The Changed Man
by Robert Philips
If you were to hear me imitating Pavarotti
in the shower every morning, you'd know
how much you have changed my life.
If you were to see me stride across the park,
waving to strangers, then you would know
I am a changed mam--like Scrooge
awakened from his bad dreams feeling feather-
light, angel-happy, laughing the father
of a long line of bright laughs--
"It is still not too late to change my life!"
It is changed. Me, who felt short-changed.
Because of you I no longer hate my body.
Because of you I buy new clothes.
Because of you I'm a warrior of joy.
Because of you and me. Drop by
this Saturday morning and discover me
fiercely pulling weeds gladly, dedicated
as a born-again gardener.
Drop by on Sunday--I'll Turtlewax
your sky-blue sports car, no sweat. I'll greet
enemies with a handshake, forgive debtors
with a papal largesse. It's all because
of you. Because of you and me,
I've become one changed man.
"Put your back on me."
by George Bilgere
They sit around the house
not doing much of anything: the boxed set
of the complete works of Verdi, unopened.
The complete Proust, unread:
The French-cut silk shirts
which hang like expensive ghosts in the closet
and make me look exactly
like the kind of middle-aged man
who would wear a French-cut silk shirt:
The reflector telescope I thought would unlock
the mysteries of the heavens
but which I only used once or twice
to try to find something heavenly
in the windows of the high-rise down the road,
and which now stares disconsolately at the ceiling
when it could be examining the Crab Nebula:
The 30-day course in Spanish
whose text I never opened,
whose dozen cassette tapes remain unplayed,
save for Tape One, where I never learned
whether the suave American
conversing with a sultry-sounding desk clerk
at a Madrid hotel about the possibility
of obtaining a room
actually managed to check in.
I like to think
that one thing led to another between them
and that by Tape Six or so
they're happily married
and raising a bilingual child in Seville or Terra Haute.
But I'll never know.
Suddenly I realize
I have constructed the perfect home
for a sexy, Spanish-speaking astronomer
who reads Proust while listening to Italian arias,
and I wonder if somewhere in this teeming city
there lives a woman with, say,
a fencing foil gathering dust in the corner
near her unused easel, a rainbow of oil paints
drying in their tubes
on the table where the violin
she bought on a whim
lies entombed in the permanent darkness
of its locked case
next to the abandoned chess set,
a woman who has always dreamed of becoming
the kind of woman the man I've always dreamed of becoming
has always dreamed of meeting.
And while the two of them discuss star clusters
and Cezanne, while they fence delicately
in Castilian Spanish to the strains of Rigoletto,
she and I will stand in the steamy kitchen,
fixing up a little risotto,
enjoying a modest cabernet,
while talking over a day so ordinary
as to seem miraculous.
Part of a response to a writer who asked if the rewriting part always has to be so painful:
If you ask most writers, they'll tell you that the editing is the fun part - the creation is the drag. Once you've created it, then you should try and see the 'making it right' part as the gravy. Now you get to slow down, choose your language and punctuation carefully, and sharpen the picture you have taken. In other words, now you get to fool with it on Fotoshop. Think of it as writing a love letter. You throw words down as fast as you can in the beginning, but then you go over and over them once that's done, trying to hone it to just the right passionate stage. See editing as the glass half full and not half empty and it'll surprise you how pleasant it can be.
"Memory is the way you make sense of love."
"Man is God in ruins."