The proper word for me,” Robin Goodman says, “is me.
To be noticed is to be loved.
Edges are magic, too; there’s a kind of forbidden magic on the borders of things, always a ceremony of crossing over, even if we ignore it or are unaware of it.
I went outside mournful, and I hit pure air. The air was full of birdsong. I went outside expecting rain but it was sunny, it was so suddenly, so openly sunny, with so sharp a spring light coming off the river, that I went down the side of the riverbank and sat in among the daffodils.
And which comes first? her unbearable mother is saying. What we see or how we see it?
Time is just ‘one damn thing after another ’, Margaret Atwood says. That sounds like conventional narrative plot. And at the end of our allotted time, we’ll end up in one of those, a conventional plot I mean, unless we stipulate otherwise in our wills.
Happy is what you realize you are a fraction of a second before it’s too late.