I stifle my words over and over again. I don’t want to say it first. I HAVE to say it first. Why can’t I say it first? Where are my guts? My glory? My fearless heart has been replaced with mush. Candid, unspeakable…
“And so it’s with great humility and pure love that I offer you this lesson: Please, never hesitate to say I love you. If you feel the words brewing, but there’s some blockage (like fear or shyness or anger or belligerence) in your way, I beg of you: Plow right through that shit. You never know when it might be your only chance to utter those beautiful, magical words. It is a privilege; it’s a gift we’ve been given that we can say these words to one another. Never hesitate. Never pause. If you feel them, say them, speak them, sing them — whatever you have to do to honor the moment. You won’t regret it.”—
“twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn’t do than by the ones you did. so throw off the bowlines, sail away from the safe harbor. catch the trade winds in your sails. explore. dream. discover.”—
Twenty years from now, I don’t want to look back on my life and ever think I did not live and love hard enough. So far, so good. <3
When I stop and think about what it’s all about I do come up with some answers, but they don’t help very much.
I think it is safe to say that life is pretty mysterious. And hard.
Life is short. I know that much. That life is short. And that it’s important to keep reminding oneself of it. That life is short. Just because it is. I suspect that each of us is going to wake up some morning to suddenly find ourselves old men (or women) without knowing how we got that way. Wondering where it all went. Regretting all the things we didn’t do. So I think that the sooner we realize that life is short the better off we are.
Now, to get down to the basics. There are 24 hours a day. There is you and there are other people. The idea is to fill these 24 hours as best one can. With love and fun. Or things that are interesting. Or what have you. Other people are most important. Art is rewarding. Books and movies are good fillers, and the most reliable.
Now you know that life is not so simple as I am making it sound. We are all a bit fucked up, and here lies the problem. To try and get rid of the fucked up parts, so we can just relax and be ourselves. For what time we have left.
“We mistake sex for romance. Guys are taught that pushing a girl up against a wall is romance. Sex is easy; you can do it with anyone, yourself, with batteries. Romance is when someone you like walks into a room and they take your breath away. Romance is when two people are dancing and they fit together perfectly. Romance is when two people are walking next to each other and all of a sudden they find themselves holding hands, and they don’t know how that happened.”—John C. Moffi
She was the kind of girl you’d want naked in bed with you, maybe you made love to her, maybe not, but what you really want is her skin, the smell of it. Fabric distracts though it hugs her the way you wish you could wrap yourself around her. Jewelry, the rings on her fingers are where you’d like to lace yours through spaces that seem meant for you. Necklaces wind around your neck where I’d like to place my hand, there on your throat, so I can be closer to your heart as it beats right there, beneath such flimsy fragile lovely skin.
You wanted this girl arranged on the bed in a way where the light fell on her just so, spilled even, highlighting the curve of the thigh, the skin under her breast, a shoulder connected to a neck that led to a collarbone. You wanted her with a book in one hand, the other in her hair, her body on it’s side so behind or in front of her everything was available for touch. She would read to you, smile, give you a small glance over the pages, but when you looked too interested in her rather than the story she’d look away.
She doesn’t know that you see the words all over her, this sentence on her inner thigh as her foot rises to her shin, in that easily forgotten arch behind her knee where the greatest words lie. Along her jaw that favourite word of “love” or “romance” lingers there waiting for a kiss. You want her rolled over, back to you, and there the end slithers along her spine. You watch as her words crawl down that bend over her backside around the legs and back inside her.
You never want the story to end, but they all do, so she reads and you watch her, she doesn’t notice you because she is reading. You see the story on her, but you’re in the book, and so she keeps her eyes there, waiting for you to rise out of it, while you desire, hunger, want to sink right back into her.
“There are two people you’ll meet in your life. One will run a finger down the index of who you are and jump straight to the parts of you that peak their interest. The other will take his or her time reading through every one of your chapters and maybe fold corners of you that inspired them most. You will meet these two people; it is a given. It is the third that you’ll never see coming. That one person who not only finishes your sentences, but keeps the book.”—Evol (via somefamouschick)
“You want to kiss all kinds of different people, you want to wake up in a stranger’s bed maybe once or twice just to see if it feels good to feel nothing, you want to have a group of friends that feels like a tribe, a bonafide family. You want to go from one place to the next constantly and have your weekends feel like one long epic day. You want to dance to stupid music in your stupid room and have a nice job that doesn’t get in the way of living your life too much. You want to be less scared, less anxious, and more willing. Because if you’re closed off now, you can only imagine what you’ll be like later.”—Ryan O’Connell (via somefamouschick)
Dead girls don’t go the dying route to get known. You’ll find us anonymous still, splayed in Buicks, carried swaying like calves, our dead hefts swung from ankles, wrists, hooked by hands and handed over to strangers slippery as blackout. Slammed down, the mud on our dress is black as her dress, worn out as a throw-rug beneath feet that stomp out the most intricate weave. It ought not sadden us, but sober us. Sylvia Plath killed herself. She ate her sin. Her eye got stuck on a diamond stickpin. You take Blake over breakfast, only to be bucked out your skull by a cat-call crossing a parking lot. Consuming her while reviling her, conditioned to hate her for her appetite alone: her problem was she thought too much? Needling an emblem’s ink onto your wrist, the surest defense a rose to reason against that bluest vein’s insistent wish. Let’s all us today finger-sweep our cheek-bones with two blood-marks and ride that terrible train homeward while looking back at our blackened eyes inside tiny mirrors fixed inside our plastic compacts. We could not have known where she began given how we were, from the start, made to begin where she ends. In this way, she’s no way to make her amends.
(Today makes the anniversary Sylvia Plath took her own life. Not something to be celebrated, but something that tortured souls can keep in the backs of their brains when the going gets tough and you long to be immortalized through prose. To cure your ails, just read. Read read read relate and then start over again.)
I had a ritual once of lighting a candle and writing by its light and blowing it out when I was done for the night … also kneeling and praying before starting (I got that from a French movie about George Frideric Handel) … but now I simply hate to write. My superstition? I’m beginning to suspect the full moon. Also I’m hung up on the number nine though I’m told a Piscean like myself should stick to number seven; but I try to do nine touchdowns a day, that is, I stand on my head in the bathroom, on a slipper, and touch the floor nine times with my toe tips, while balanced. This is incidentally more than yoga, it’s an athletic feat, I mean imagine calling me ‘unbalanced’ after that. Frankly I do feel that my mind is going. So another ‘ritual’ as you call it, is to pray to Jesus to preserve my sanity and my energy so I can help my family: that being my paralyzed mother, and my wife, and the ever-present kitties. Okay?
- Jack Kerouac on his writing rituals and superstitions, 1968
I would like to watch you sleeping, which may not happen. I would like to watch you, sleeping. I would like to sleep with you, to enter your sleep as its smooth dark wave slides over my head
and walk with you through that lucent wavering forest of bluegreen leaves with its watery sun & three moons towards the cave where you must descend, towards your worst fear
I would like to give you the silver branch, the small white flower, the one word that will protect you from the grief at the center of your dream, from the grief at the center I would like to follow you up the long stairway again & become the boat that would row you back carefully, a flame in two cupped hands to where your body lies beside me, and as you enter it as easily as breathing in
I would like to be the air that inhabits you for a moment only. I would like to be that unnoticed & that necessary.
Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew. It’s the same when love comes to an end, or the marriage fails and people say they knew it was a mistake, that everybody said it would never work. That she was old enough to know better. But anything worth doing is worth doing badly. Like being there by that summer ocean on the other side of the island while love was fading out of her, the stars burning so extravagantly those nights that anyone could tell you they would never last. Every morning she was asleep in my bed like a visitation, the gentleness in her like antelope standing in the dawn mist. Each afternoon I watched her coming back through the hot stony field after swimming, the sea light behind her and the huge sky on the other side of that. Listened to her while we ate lunch. How can they say the marriage failed? Like the people who came back from Provence (when it was Provence) and said it was pretty but the food was greasy. I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell, but just coming to the end of his triumph.
“How can the future be molded with hands full of baggage labeled ‘What Was’ and ‘What Could’ve Been?’ Where can you go with all that stuff, and how much fun will you have with it when you get there? Leave those bags behind, and hope they stay lost before you get to your next destination. All right, take a few souvenirs if you must, but just nice stuff. No junk.”—Michael Rawls