Sometimes one has to know something many times over. Sometimes one forgets, and then remembers. And then forgets, and then remembers. And then forgets again.
After my friend’s accident I take care of her. It is always taking care, but it is difficult, because at times to take care of her is also to cause her pain.
102. After my friend’s accident I take care of her. It is always taking care, but it is difficult, because at times to take care of her is also to cause her pain.
Mostly I have felt myself becoming a servant of sadness. I am still looking for the beauty in that.
It will not say, ‘Isn’t X beautiful?’ Such demands are murderous to beauty.
It is always taking care, but it is difficult, because at times to take care of her is also to cause her pain.
This is generous, for to be close to her pain has always felt like a privilege to me, even though pain could be defined as that which we typically aim to avoid.
Misogyny, when expressed or explored by men, remains a timeless classic.
The question up for debate between Socrates and Phaedrus is whether the written word kills memory or aids it–whether it cripples the mind’s power, or whether it cures it of its forgetfulness.
I am trying to talk about what blue means, or what it means to me, apart from meaning.
Do not, however, make the mistake of thinking that all desire is yearning.
This is the dysfunction talking. This is the disease talking. This is how much I miss you talking. This is the deepest blue, talking, talking, always talking to you.
Evolution strikes me as infinitely more spiritually profound than Genesis.
We don’t get to choose what or whom we love, I want to say. We just don’t get to choose.
So far as I can tell, most worthwhile pleasures on this earth slip between gratifying another and gratifying oneself. Some would call that an ethics.
For to wish to forget how much you loved someone– and then, to actually forget– can feel, at times, like the slaughter of a beautiful bird who chose, by nothing short of grace, to make a habitat of your heart.
To take a breath of water: does the thought panic or excite you?
I will always aspire to contain my shit as best I can, but I am no longer interested in hiding my dependencies in an effort to appear superior to those who are more visibly undone or aching.
Perhaps I had inadvertently brushed up against the Buddhist axiom, that enlightenment is the ultimate disappointment.
But is there really such a thing as nothing, as nothingness? I don’t now. I know we’re still here, who knows for how long, ablaze with our care, its ongoing song.