I believe that we are given strength and help from a power much larger than ourselves. I believe if I humble myself that this power will come through me, and help me create work that is bigger than I would have ever been able to have done alone.
Flowers heal me. Tulips make me happy. I keep myself surrounded by them as soon as they start coming to the island from Canada, and after that when they come from the fields in La Connor, not far from where I live.
As a writer, I am not goddess of the universes I create. I am at most a stage manager of the plentiful gifts which tumble out of the horn of plenty, which is to say there is a source so sweet and forgiving and generous that I pray every day to let that source be my guide.
Sometimes you just have to reach out and grab what you want, even when they tell you not to. This is something that I’ve struggled with my whole life long.
But who has time to write memoirs? I’m still living my memoirs.
I want to lay up like that, to float unstructured, without ambition or anxiety. I want to inhabit my life like a porch.
I value humor, kindness, and the ability to tell a good story far more than money, status, or the kind of car someone drives.
She longed for porch friendship, for the sticky, hot sensation of familiar female legs thrown over hers in companionship. She pined for the girliness of it all, the unplanned, improvisational laziness. She wanted to soak the words ‘time management’ out of her lexicon. She wanted to hand over, to yield, to let herself float down the unchartered beautiful fertile musky swamp of life, where creativity and eroticism and deep intelligence dwell.
Once the scent caught me on the street in Greenwich Village. I stopped in my tracks and looked around. Where was it coming from? A shop? The trees? A passerby? I could not tell. I only knew the smell made me cry. I stood on the sidewalk in Greenwich Village as people brushed by, and felt suddenly young and terribly open, as if I were waiting for something. I live in an ocean of smell, and the ocean is my mother.
Uncountable the number off breaths I’ve taken for granted in my life.
After writing in her journal, Sidda felt sleepy. She let her head drop down over the table and dozed off. Vivi’s.
Those eagles, like angels, don’t distinguish between work and play. To them, it is all one and the same.
Sidda looked like she could not have been born from my body. This was the first time I ever felt that she was not me: that she was someone else. I didn’t like that feeling.
I shake so hard that freckles jump off my face.
Edythe, I finally say, Why don’t you go on back to your bunk and eat your boogers for a midnight snack like you always do at home? Well, that comment really sends my friends, and I’m a big hit. But then I see Edythe’s face. It’s like something has fallen on it and crumpled it in. Somehow she looks so familiar that I can feel her bones inside my own body. And I start to feel sort of sick. She turns and walks away and.
From her perch on the crescent of the harvest moon, the Holy Lady looked down and smiled at her imperfect children. The angels attending her that night felt little twinges of longing to be in human form, if for only a few minutes. They wanted to rock, they wanted to roll, they wanted to feel the peculiarly human feeling of having a perfect night in an imperfect world.
En un tren, parece que puedas ir a cualquier parte.
Honestly, Edythe, Mama says, like she’s going to give her the most important advice in the world, If you continue acting this way, you will be unpopular for the rest of your life. I wish I could go someplace far away.
How many years went by unnoticed, unembraced?
Luna. If I could, do you think I would spare my babies from the pain and love and suffering of the body from the first breath drawn? If I could, I would spill a silk sack of secrets down, like fireflies in the hot magic air. But my dear ones might not be ready. They might just swat those sacred secrets away like mosquitoes. If I could, do you think I would use my lunar power to rob them of their beautiful, poignant, soulful earth opera?