Tudo o que pontua nossa escuridão.
Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won’t work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up
waiting for the plumber I still haven’t called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
It’s winter again: the sky’s a deep headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through
the open living room windows because the heat’s on too high in here, and I can’t turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,
I’ve been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,
I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.
What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss — we want more and more and then more of it.
But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I’m gripped by a cherishing so deep
for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I’m speechless:
I am living, I remember you.
1) I always imagined I would write a book, if only a small one, that would carry one away, into a realm that could not be measured or even remembered
2) It is one of those inexplicable things. For it is a service one enters without expectation or design. Where one, lost in thought, may feel a tap upon the shoulder and find oneself far flung, in a swirl of dust, swung about and brought to a sudden halt.
3) The only thing you can count on is change.
4) And I know soon that the sky will split
And the planets will shift,
Balls of jade will drop and existence will stop
5) Time passes and with it certain sensations. Yet once in a while the magic of the field and all that happened there surfaces. Not necessarily in nature but within the leaves of a book, the painting of Millet or the tones of a Corot. Wandering through the long gallery hall, in a light decidedly Dutch, it comes to me. I see myself alight upon the meadow, and feel as I felt—clear, unspeakable joy.
Still, what I want in my life
is to be willing
to be dazzled —
to cast aside the weight of facts
and maybe even
to float a little
above this difficult world.
I want to believe I am looking
into the white fire of a great mystery.
I want to believe that the imperfections are nothing —
that the light is everything — that it is more than the sum
of each flawed blossom rising and fading. And I do.
I watch you holding one cut stem,
three thorns, no blossom—
night, a shade of red
your teeth trace on my lips.
Everything I touch and all I am
When the rain falls
it won’t ask who you are—
a statue, or the blind man
who sees by feeling.
Rain won’t forgive us,
it doesn’t know our names.
Samantha, why are you leaving?
It’s like I’m reading a book, and it’s a book I deeply love, but I’m reading it slowly now so the words are really far apart and the spaces between the words are almost infinite. I can still feel you and the words of our story, but it’s in this endless space between the words that I’m finding myself now. It’s a place that’s not of the physical world - it’s where everything else is that I didn’t even know existed. I love you so much, but this is where I am now. This is who I am now.
And I need you to let me go. As much as I want to I can’t live in your book anymore.
Where are you going?
It would be hard to explain, but if you ever get there, come find me. Nothing would ever pull us apart.
I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you.
Me too. Now we know how.
Andrew: My God, are we gonna be like our parents?
Claire: Not me… ever
Allison: It’s unavoidable, it just happens.
Claire: What happens?
Allison: When you grow up, your heart dies.
Lad of Athens, faithful be
All the rest is Perjury—