— The Children’s Bach, Helen Garner
Scheherazade (Richard Siken)
Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake
and dress them in warm clothes again.
How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running
until they forget that they are horses.
It’s not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere,
it’s more like a song on a policeman’s radio,
how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days
were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple
to slice into pieces.
Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it’s noon, that means
Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.
These, our bodies, possessed by light.
Tell me we’ll never get used to it.
7:46 pm 2 notes
As far as years went, this one had been largely unremarkable. In the city, the days seemed to resist nightfall and the waking hours had a sort of sedative effect on Ingrid, whose life had remained largely unchanged except for Mellie no longer being there. Spring was long gone and everything was shifting again. The grasses were already turning yellow, tainted from the sun and Ingrid’s school hummed with impatience, as though the seams that held it together were steadily unraveling. Apart from the brief moments of forgetting, Ingrid stumbled through the days, still caught up in the residual grief of the previous summer. It seemed she would always be waiting for things to feel right again and in the meanwhile, didn’t know what to do with herself.
10:23 pm 1 note
These are the last warm days of summer. The windows stay open late into the night and the cool breeze is still and sobering. Things feel stranger than usual, difficult for small reasons. I deleted five pages of writing because the words were tired, mostly silly. I’m obsessed with new beginnings, cycles, seasons - the illusion of control that comes with dividing time up into bite sized pieces. I kept my first entry from June four years ago, because it was the first. A tiny commitment. A reminder. An acknowledgement of what Didion calls the compulsive impulse to write things down, ‘inexplicable to those who do not share it, useful only accidentally, only secondarily, in the way that any compulsion tries to justify itself.’
— Anaïs Nin
I have bruises I don’t remember getting, my muscles hurt from sleeping strangely and making love and falling over. I have beetroot stains on the palms of my hands and cuts on my knees. A watch tan, chipped nailpolish and split ends. It is January all over again.
— Kurt Vonnegut
We’re growing up in between breaths and it’s still the smallest things that carry the most weight, that glow the brightest. It’s the outstretched fingers, the hesitations, the negative space between bodies. Today my heart swells quietly for silly, shallow reasons. Today I measure how little I’ve slept by the dampness of my hair and I just need to remember this - how I’m giving myself permission to feel again.