cahoodaloodaling

I wish you could live in my brain for a week. It is washed with the most violent waves of emotion… And you think it all fixed and settled. Do we then know nobody?—only our own version of them, which, as likely as not, are emanations from ourselves.

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I remember we sat in the swing on the
front porch & as the dusk came on us
like a song, dark throated & sweet, he
told me about the beginning when we
had bones of light & hair that burned
like the sun & I asked what happened
then? & I felt him floating there in the
soft dark & finally he said we forgot & I
said I never would, but sometimes I do
& I understand now why he put his arm
around me & said nothing more.

7 notes 

There is the truth of history, and there is the truth of what a person remembers. As Sidda sat at the edge of Lake Quinault, memory blossoms floated unbounded, as though breathed, no words spoken. Like birds that fly across national borders, between countries at war with each other.

Neither should you fret too much about “writer’s block.” If you’re looking at a blank piece of paper and nothing comes to you, then go do something else. Writer’s block is just a symptom of feeling like you have nothing to say, combined with the rather weird idea that you SHOULD feel the need to say something.

I must study politics and war, that my sons may have the liberty to study mathematics and philosophy, natural history and naval architecture, in order to give their children a right to study painting, poetry, music, architecture, tapestry, and porcelain.

2 notes