The Hatch, The Grange, The Anchorage, The Beam, The Binnacle, The Boom, The Bowsprit, The Bulkhead, The Cottage Way, The Fairway, The Grange, The Grey Gums, The Halyard, The Jib, The Mainsail, The Meadow, The Peninsula, The Pinnacle, The Plateau, The Point, The Portico, The Promenade, The Ruins Way, The Spinnaker, The Stockyard, The Summit, The Tiller.
“There’s a little truth behind every ‘just kidding’, a little curiosity behind every ‘just wondering’, a little knowledge behind every ‘I don’t know’, a little emotion behind every ‘I don’t care’, and a little kick of lie behind the distant eyes of someone saying ‘I don’t love you.’”—(via mypaperheart) (via lovebot) (via birdcalls)
I want to stay intertwined with you until my lungs are filled with smoke from your ashy cigarettes and your lips are blue from the pop I was eating. Until I breathe and can only smell the smell of your shampoo fill my nose and when the wind dances around your neck you can only imagine my finger tips brushing against your skin.
“Could fulfillment ever be felt as deeply as loss? Romantically she decided that love must surely reside in the gap between desire and fulfillment, in the lack, not the contentment. Love was the ache, the anticipation, the retreat, everything around it but the emotion itself.”—Kiran Desai, The Inheritance of Loss
Where is the original skin this version can be checked against? Snow, Cholera, Red Shoe, Nightingfale—the image outshine the actual, the body outshines the soul, the angel food cake dissolves as you dip it into a cup of black coffee before me, dark sugar & inevitably, fading. You are my ex & thus the past must outshine the present in a way that hurts just to look at. In another country wasps burrow into October’s fallen butter pears & poppies are halfway drawn toward dying. Everything in this life has an outline that at sometime will cease to contain it. So many different renderings of the same wink & silence that I nearly forgot what time it was— do you know what lesson this is? Ah, the one where she is made to decipher desire alone, the one where she wants to be loved but instead is outshined by her wanting. So easy to think for a second that the original may soon pale in comparison. No, says the actual, It was the best you’d ever had, & its one true joy is that you’ll never have it again.
I love you. You’re going to be inside my characters. That something the grandpa says, that’s something you whispered in my ear. The way that boyfriend scratches his forehead when he’s confused, that’s something you do. Another character’s heart. His friend. Her feelings. The way they hold hands. I dare you to read my stories and not find pieces of you scattered throughout.
What is your writing process like? Do you write every day? Do you have a kind of totemic place or object? Or do you need to read before you write?
I try to write every morning, from about nine until twelve. It’s really rare that I would ever write more than that. I know it’s a good idea to listen to music on the way to writing, but I often just can’t quite get it together, for some reason, to do that. I try not to speak to my extended family before I write, because that just clouds everything up.
So you don’t answer the phone, you don’t do e-mail.
No, I do. I’m not, like… I don’t curate the museum of my writing. I am not at all prissy about it. Things don’t have to be a certain way, and life gets in the way all the time. When I was in college and starting to think about writing, I was driving once from Princeton to D.C., where my parents lived, and there was a sex therapist on the radio. And someone called with whatever problem, and this therapist said, “What do you do in the bedroom?” And the guy was like, “Well, watch TV, sleep, have sex, do my taxes; that’s where we change our clothes…” And the therapist said, “Don’t do anything in your bedroom except have sex and sleep. Don’t watch TV, don’t do—because all these things are going to be on your mind, and it’s going to be much harder to separate this thing that needs to be separated out.” And writing is like that. If you don’t find a way to create a wall between it and the world, the world will always win.
What helps about listening to music?
I think music is probably the most directly impactful art form. I mean, it’s the one that, within three minutes, you can find yourself screaming at the top of your lungs and banging your fists. And a novel never does that.
A poem can do that sometimes.
A poem can do that, it’s true. But not quite like that. I mean, certainly you can’t, like, turn up the volume on a poem. A poem is still always going to be a more active experience than listening to music. And there’s something about the passiveness of it that allows for whatever mood you’re in to really enter.
It works on the limbic system, in a way.
Yeah, that’s what it is. It’s a very quick way. It’s like a shot to the heart, you know.
“It’s true, I think, as Kenko says in his idleness,
that all beauty depends upon disappearance,
the bitten edges of things,
the gradual sliding away
into tissue and memory,
and dazzling impermanence of days
we beg our meanings from
and their frayed loveliness.”—Charles Wright (via Alisha) (via astroblemes)