Friday, August 29, 2014
It is 75 degrees today. I feel like you are ready to leave us. I was invincible this summer, old enough to not give all of my heart, but just enough so the pain was manageable. When you're older you can manage the pain. You can drive to virginia and ohio by yourself and look out the window and think oh how nice. You can rent a hotel and pump gas and drive through the rain and camp in poison ivy, and pay the dr $170 because you just don't want to get all pussed out. make friends or dance alone. You can read a poem to your brother at his wedding, and wear a red dress, because you're single, you're old enough to be bright and noticed and say hey, its me im ok. And what are you going to do about August anyway? Its a problem you cant solve but you dont want to. You just hold it tight and try to get your skin more brown. You notice when its not still light at 8:30 anymore and you notice when youre ready to just rest and read more books. and sweaters will be ok. you can hibernate. you have been going 90 miles an hour. the sun will still sink back past the mountains and if youre lucky you can still take a look. summer summer summer you were good and fresh and the only summer ive known as this woman who does whatever she wants. and doesnt cry. just shrugs and says hey its just another month. and who needs leaves? and kids out of school? summer is so free sometimes you need a little reigning in.
Tuesday, August 26, 2014
Sunday, August 24, 2014
Friday, August 22, 2014
“To him she seemed so beautiful, so seductive, so different from ordinary people, that he could not understand why no one was as disturbed as he by the clicking of her heels on the paving stones, why no one else's heart was wild with the breeze stirred by the sighs of her veils, why everyone did not go mad with the movements of her braid, the flight of her hands, the gold of her laughter. He had not missed a single one of her gestures, not one of the indications of her character, but he did not dare approach her for fear of destroying the spell.” ― Gabriel García Márquez, Love in the Time of Cholera