Each of us has a family tree full of stories inside of us, Dirk thought. Each of us has a story blossoming out of us.
You have to make your own family, your own life.
It’s scary to become a woman in this world. We have to understand that some of the messages we get, messages that we are not enough, are there to keep our power in check. We can’t buy into these messages.
I am constantly thinking ahead to what I want to write about in the future, and when I’m done with one project, I give myself a little time and then start the next one.
Writing is literally transformative. When we read, we are changed. When we write, we are changed. It’s neurological. To me, this is a kind of magic.
Maybe he was real. Maybe I’d made him up. Either way, he didn’t think I needed him anymore. Maybe he was right.
Welcome Beauty, banish fear.
I think depression creates in me an urgent need to write, but I also believe that daily stress, and even the positive stress of intense happiness, can compel me to express myself through the written word.
Any love that is love is right.
You can’t doubt so much, Psyche.
I think that poetry is perfect for women raising children, with just bits of time and such need to connect to other women out of the isolation of motherhood.
Think of your pain like a bunch of red roses, a beautiful thorn necklace. Everyone has one.
In Mexico people wear hummingbird amulets around their necks to show they are searching for love. Here people pretend that they aren’t. Searching.
Pain can give you sight or make you blind.
You make me feel like I have wings when you touch me.
Morning. Strawberry sky dusted with white winter powder sugar sun. And nobody to munch on it with.
Everything was fine, but Weetzie wanted a baby. “How could you want one?” My Secret Agent Lover Man said. “There are way too many babies. And diseases. And nuclear accidents. And crazy psychos. We cant have a baby,” he said.
Pulling heads off Barbies, sticking them on the TV antenna and ruining the reception. But thats how witch babies are.
Weetzie wished she could shake blue glitter around all of them – keeping them sparkling and safe.
Everything is an illusion; that is the whole thing about it – illusion, immitation, a mirage. It makes me too sad. Its having like a good dream, you know you are going to wake up.