I accidentally locked myself out tonight in a snow squall. There was the moon all foggy-luminous, trees creaking like old rocking chairs, and those lovely big cotton-puff snowflakes. One really shouldn’t go wandering in the woods at night, but then there was a fox, and it stopped suddenly in its tracks. We stared at each other for a second, caught, and then he slipped into the trees. How can I explain to you that its just impossible for me not to follow.
“Somewhere the flower of farewell is blooming.
Endlessly it yields its pollen, which we breathe.
Even in the breeze of this beginning hour we breathe farewell.”—Rainer Maria Rilke from A Year With Rilke, Dec 31
Winter of deer and foxes, fog and snow, frozen-in-time hours by the window to the woods. The Secret History, new work, New York.
Spring of loss. First blossoms and a bitter flight across the Pacific. Lonely, nervous weeks in Australia. Rainbows, crystals, fish&chips, and books in bed.
Summer of storms, of the Virginian heat, of wind whipping through hair. Lightning, thunder, crash-pangs of the heart. Of swimming, picking wild raspberries barefoot and tearfully leaving the Deerling Woods for the last time.
Fall of *crushing heartbreak, of finally beginning to let go of a love, of being caught by gentle friends with good hearts. Of driving south to see them again and again and again. Drink-addled bliss; the cold, churning ocean; crisp northern stars. Repeat from *.
And now entering Winter again willingly, memorizing poetry, studying the night sky, nurturing little window plants, nurturing a little beating heart. The beautiful and terrifying promise of more life to come. Learning over & over, forever & ever.
“For the sake of one line of poetry, one must see many cities, people, and things. One must be acquainted with animals and feel how the birds fly, and know the gestures of small flowers opening at the first light. One must be able to think back on paths taken through unknown places, on unanticipated meetings, and on farewells one had long seen coming, on days of childhood not yet understood; […] on days in closed and quiet rooms and on mornings by the sea; on the sea itself, on all seas; on night journeys that rose and flew with the stars. […] One must remember many nights of love, of which none was like another. […] And it is still not enough to have memories: one must be able to forget them when they crowd the mind and one must have the immense patience to wait until they come again. For it is not the memories themselves. Only when they become our blood, our glance, our gesture, nameless and indistinguishable from who we are—only then can it happen that in a very rare hour the first word of a poem rises from their midst and goes forth.”—Rainer Maria Rilke, The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge
I visited an artist friend of mine in the country where the stars are clear and bright. Silhouettes of two horses stood against the moonlight and a perfect appearance of the Orion constellation. I sat by the lake, a little rosy from wine, watching the Geminids streak across the sky.
"Tell me something," I say.
"Life’s not as confusing as people second think," my friend answers.
"On third thought, does this make life worth living?"
"Witnessing life cosmically newborn juxtaposed with life cosmically wise? The journey the light took from Orion’s stars all the way to your eyes? Yeah, I think it makes it pretty worth living."
This is the way things are now. I come home after dark and measure time in varietals of wine. We’re coming to the end of the shiraz era now: “dark cherry and black current warmed with hints of vanilla, liquorice and oak. [And listen to this] A rich, full finish.” Fancy that.
“Emotions, in my experience, aren’t covered by single words. I don’t believe in “sadness,” “joy,” or “regret.” Maybe the best proof that the language is patriarchal is that it oversimplifies feeling. I’d like to have at my disposal complicated hybrid emotions, Germanic train-car constructions like, say, “the happiness that attends disaster.” Or: “the disappointment of sleeping with one’s fantasy.” I’d like to show how “intimations of mortality brought on by aging family members” connects with “the hatred of mirrors that begins in middle age.” I’d like to have a word for “the sadness inspired by failing restaurants” as well as for “the excitement of getting a room with a minibar.” I’ve never had the right words to describe my life, and now that I’ve entered my story, I need them more than ever.”—Jeffrey Eugenides
adj. entranced and unsettled by the vastness of the universe, experienced in a jolt of recognition that the night sky is not just a wallpaper but a deeply foreign ocean whose currents are steadily carrying off all other castaways, who share our predicament but are already well out of earshot—worlds and stars who would’ve been lost entirely except for the scrap of light they were able to fling out into the dark, a message in a bottle that’s only just now washing up on the Earth’s atmosphere, an invitation to a party that already ended a million years ago.
Waking up late in the sun-drenched morning to Bon Iver & Burgundy wine-stained lips, trying to think of all the things I said. One of the last things I remember was, “I could be laying underwater for the way I feel. Like laying on the bottom of a pool and not running out of breath.”
I dreamt I was pouring hot chocolate with lots of foam for me and three little bunnies. We’ve been doing our best to find the meaning in all our dreams. A friend offered this interpretation: “the hot chocolate is comfort and the bunnies are your friends. Extra foam is for smiles. You’re always generous with them.”
Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark, That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken. Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle’s compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
I don't know you, but know that I send you love. I don't have answers, but I pray that the answers that exist will come to you and guide you to a warm and happy place. I hope for light to defeat any dark that you may be dwelling in. Please keep your chin up dearest. xoxo
I read this several times and it brought tears to my eyes. I’ll try to hang on to that hope and keep my chin up. Thank you so much.
Slowly and torturously, he broke my heart this weekend for all to see while I sat and watched in horror. It was one of the more painful experiences in my entire life. I had done so much heart-mending over the last few months, and now I’ve come all unstitched. it’s going to take some time to recover. Forgive me if I’m not myself for a while. I’m lost to the dark side of my thoughts.
If you know a way out of this, if you know a light to walk towards, please (I beg you) write to me and tell me.