it will look as though I am flying into myself.

9 Feb

The people around me survive on coffee and cigarettes.
I don’t want to be like them.

I want to help people in a way that’s not controversial.
The arts, literature — things that we know.

___________________________________________________________________

“Sometimes I wonder about my life. I lead a small life – well, valuable, but small – and sometimes I wonder, do I do it because I like it, or because I haven’t been brave? So much of what I see reminds me of something I read in a book, when shouldn’t it be the other way around?” (you’ve got mail)


“She is in love.”
“I don’t even know her!”
“Oh, you know her.”
“Since when?”
Since always. In your dreams.”

(amelie)

Amelie has a strange feeling of absolute harmony. It’s a perfect moment. A soft light, a scent in the air, the quiet murmur of the city. A surge of love, an urge to help mankind overcomes her.

(amelie)

“Dan: I fell in love with her, Alice.
Alice: Oh, as if you had no choice? There’s a moment, there’s always a moment, “I can do this, I can give into this, or I can resist it”, and I don’t know when your moment was, but I bet you there was one.”

(closer by patrick marber)

“Dan: And you left him, just like that?
Alice: It’s the only way to leave. “I don’t love you anymore. Goodbye.”
Dan: Supposing you do still love them?
Alice: You don’t leave.
Dan: You’ve never left someone you still love?
Alice: Nope.”

(closer by patrick marber)

“She exhales a soft, catching sigh.

IT IS A SHAME NO ONE IS HERE TO SEE THIS, she says. IT MUST BE A VERY BEAUTIFUL DEATH.

She is staring up at her ceiling and because of what she sees she is able to smile past the pain of dying alone:

Adam, his eyes closed in the soft ecstasy of sleep, a trail of blood seeping from his side, the warm ooze creeping through the fingers of the God-hand, attached to God Himself, who billows and glows, and gropes with his other hand in the darkness for whatever dust and dirt he will use to fashion the queen of his new world. The split in Adam’s side is not so much a wound but an indentation made of love—perhaps even a crisp bite of lust, Eve’s white teeth into the apple—the blood burns with passion, but no pain. In Enid’s flickering brain she can see the rest of the scene: the shaping of Eve (hips, breasts, thighs, ankles, wrists), the meeting of the two beings, their innocent lovemaking in the warm, fragrant air, their quiet love deep in the garden, their future of terror and tragedy, the future of all humankind wrapped up in their solitary ecstasy, embodied in their two-soul entwinement.

IT IS NOT SO MUCH, she breathes, BUT I AM PROUD OF IT.”

(excerpt from “The Divine Madness of Enid Irving” by Detgen Wardle)

Bach, I said, he had 20 children.

he played the horses during the day.

he fucked at night

and drank in the mornings.

he wrote music in between.

at least that´s what I told her

when she asked me,

when do you do your

writing?

(bukowski)

And this, one of my favorite shorts of all time, by an author I cannot find and/or credit:

“I’m not good at describing things.

The sun wakes me up. It shines through the blinds. It’s orange, the sun. The only warmth in the apartment. I think I’ll get out of bed today.

“Does it mean anything?”

“Me,” I say.

“And what is that exactly?”

The clerk smiles at me. Most women don’t smile at me. Maybe she’s blind. The clerk tells me I need to buy a card. And write in it, write your heart. I ask her if they have cards with writing already inside. She says no, blank only.

“What do you know about me?”

“I know your favorite color is orange,” I say. “I know you need to grow things. You look at women in magazines and then go in the bathroom and look at yourself.”

I give my coffee to a man sitting near the door. He looks cold. I stare at him like I know him.

 I’ve been reading a book, and the author – I can’t remember her name, rhymes with “mends” – creates her characters so, I don’t know, perfect, poetic, good. I tried writing, to write like her. I wanted myself on paper. The notebook sits at home somewhere, empty.

Lily answers. She’s in the same shirt she wore on the first day we met.

 “What?”

My mouth is open. I hand her the plant and card.

“What is it?”

“It’s a fire lily.” I say.

“Does it mean anything?”

“Me,” I say.

“And what is that exactly?”

I swallow.

“What do you know about me?”

I tell her.

“But I know nothing about you. Do you know how hard it is to share yourself with someone and get nothing back? I give, and I give, and I give to you. I need something more than a flower.”

Lily drops the plant and card in a waste bin. She closes the door..

I don’t drink coffee. But I like the smell of it. We would come here, Lily and I, and she’d drink Chai Tea. We’d laugh.. We should come back. I count five petals on each lily, three bulbs in all. I picked the one card with an orange flower pictured on the cover. The card is blank inside but, for some reason, I fill it with writing. What I write has no order, like me. I look at the lily and write, look at the lily and write.

I buy a coffee before I leave to carry its smell to Lily’s.

“What is it?”

“It’s a fire lily.” I say.

“Does it mean anything?”

I look at the card she’s about to trash in her hand.

“Me,” I say.”

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