Money helps, though not so much as you think when you don’t have it.
Love. The black hook. The spear singing through the mind.
All of our actions have in their doing the seed of their undoing.
The length of sky is just about the size of my ignorance. Pure and wide.
Death is the least civilized rite of passage.
Our tribe unraveled like a coarse rope, frayed at either end as the old and new among us were taken.
By the time I was done with the car it looked worse than any typical Indian car that has been driven all its life on reservation roads, which they always say are like government promises – full of holes.
I truly think that you can’t go and stalk your material, you have to leave the door open and whatever chooses you, chooses you. You can’t go and wrestle it to the ground.
Be lovely and do no harm.
If life’s a joke, then suicide’s a bad punch line.
A woman’s body is the gate to this life. A man’s body is the gate to the next life.
What men call adventures usually consist of the stoical endurance of appalling daily misery.
People forget the good, because the bad has more punch.
I think one of the reasons to be here on earth is to finally be who we are, at all times – to know and be predictable to ourselves.
To sew is to pray. Men don’t understand this. They see the whole but they don’t see the stitches. They don’t see the speech of the creator in the work of the needle. We mend. We women turn things inside out and set things right. We salvage what we can of human garments and piece the rest into blankets. Sometimes our stitches stutter and slow. Only a woman’s eyes can tell. Other times, the tension in the stitches might be too tight because of tears, but only we know what emotion went into the making. Only women can hear the prayer.
We have these earthly bodies. We don’t know what they want. Half the time, we pretend they are under our mental thumb, but that is the illusion of the healthy and the protected. Of sedate lovers. For the body has emotions it conceives and carries through without concern for anyone or anything else. Love is one of those, I guess. Going back to something very old knit into the brain as we were growing. Hopeless. Scorching. Ordinary.
Sorrow eats time. Be patient. Time eats sorrow.
Getting blown up happened in an instant; getting put together took the rest of your life.
The first thing that happens at the end of the world is that we don’t know what is happening.
Sometimes owls came near to warn of death. Sometimes they just asked people to be careful. Sometimes they were just owls.