Bye Bye Blackbird sneaks up on you. It gets dressed, waves to the mailman, catches a bus, stops off at church to light a candle, then tosses coins to a swingy little band on the street … it shows up at the bar, orders a drink, cracks all its knuckles, gives one of those big yoga stretches, takes a seat, downs the drink in a single swallow and signals the guy in the back with the lights. Let’s do this.
“There are stories that are true, in which each individual’s tale is unique and tragic, and the worst of the tragedy is that we have heard it before, and we cannot allow ourselves to feel it too deeply. We build a shell around it like an oyster dealing with a painful particle of grit, coating it with smooth pearl layers in order to cope. This is how we walk and talk and function, day in, day out, immune to others’ pain and loss. If it were to touch us it would cripple us or make saints of us; but for the most part, it does not touch us. We cannot allow it to.” – Gaiman
For months now, I’ve been practicing speeches while pacing outside the door of the artists’ loft I built for you inside my head. There’s no one specific speech. They tend to wander a lot. And it occurs to me, the ridiculousness of this.
I built a loft with a rooftop garden in my head for you so that I could talk with you without bothering you in the real world. And all these years later, I still pace in the hall outside your door, not calling, not writing … not wanting to bother the boy you were or the man you’ve become.
Be well, my friend.
Seriously, Laurustina … you’ve spent – no – wasted much too much time circling this fucking unicorn like you’ve got a chance in hell of breaking it. And deep down, some part of you knows it’s just another horse with a taped on horn. You see the unicorn you needed to see, just so there was something out there to believe in. And one of these days, honey, that sparkly little fucker is gonna kick you in the head.
Wallflowers and old women know more about men than pretty girls ever will.
I’ve put in Ivan and Alyosha because it is one of those moments where I would swear I’ve been taken dancing only to open my eyes realize that the person making eyes at you all night was a reflection of you and now you have to go home alone and the last thing you will remember is your face with smeared mascara in harsh light.
Is it any wonder you grow up to hate yourself?
But what I’m trying to describe is not the bright light bit, but the part where you and your reflection have caught one another’s eye and are dancing in unison, looking away so the other doesn’t see your throat flush, the smile on your face, the one that makes your punk rock boss touch her finger to the corner of her mouth and say, “you got a couple of feathers there still”, because you are the cat bound to burst with the canary.
This is that moment, where you are dancing. You look away. The other you does the same. And when you look back, beneath heavy lids, your other you is right there – eye to eye and the spark drills down through you. This was one of those nights where I felt the groove and Christ almighty, I miss the groove.
The texture of longing is ever changing, but some things are non-negotiable, it is always wood, with a visible grain. Rough-hewn, sanded to a matte or polished to a deep cherry glow, all of these have their place. And before you argue that longing is a bolt of satin, the edge of a blade or the texture of coarse salt rubbed between two fingers – it is not. It never has been. The satin is desire, the blade – heartbreak and the salt … well everybody knows what the salt is.
It is finished. #karamazov #goodreads #ruinedforallotherbooks
Halfway into the kitchen, I turned around and came back to the desk to write something down and I was all kinds of delighted and afraid I would forget what I meant to write while the computer was warming up. When the blank document finally opened and my fingers hit the keyboard, HAKUNA MATATA were the only fucking words in my head.
I hope your world is kind. By which I mean, I’ve heard we see the world not as it is but as we are.
– Neil Gaiman