A secret girl named Augustine wrapped courage in brown parcel paper and twine. I think she meant to mail it to me, in a schooner made from glass, but the war came and everything turned to dust: dust fell from her eyelashes, slowly and steadily risen and lowered; and the sea turned to dust, it tasted like under-the-bed darkness; the rain was dust, too - it sounded like a soft footfall on the stairs.
Listening to the Harry Potter audiobooks really makes me realize how much they’ve short changed Ron’s character in the movies (even though I really really liked how Rupert Grint played him), and totally cut the awesome friendship/bromance he and Harry have, and how less annoying, strict and logical (and prettier) they made Hermione (and unsurprisingly I am not that big of a fan on how Emma Watson played her).
i. I love the word “howl”. It awakes in me thoughts of wildness and pine groves, of full moon and darkest nights, of wet leaves, calm lakes, and the looming presence of mountains, like gods surveying their land. Of wolves too. Margaret Atwood once wrote that all stories worth anything are about wolves, and there is such a truth in these words. And if stories are about wolves, than howling is the sound they make when you read, write, or live them.
ii. I love ships. Not only are they the symbol and pattern that returns over and over again in my mind and in my dreams. They represent my longing, and adventures, and discoveries, and also the cowardice of running away, and the Bravery of leaving things behind. They are the only thing Brave enough to sail the sea, to face the uncertainty of uncharted oceans, of wild and terrible abysses and the looming prospect of the waterfalls, raging at the edge of the world. Who wouldn’t want such Bravery? In Ocean Sea, Alessandro Baricco writes that the ships are the eyes of the sea, and shipwrecks mean that the sea has closed its eyes.
iii. I love girls with hand-made encyclopedias in their mind.
Why do we seek that which makes our hearts break? Why do we crave that kind of beauty which tears us asunder? Maybe this is why sadness is like water, cool, shimmering blues and greens, to fool us into thinking that we need it. To trick us into desiring its beauty, which is only skin deep. Still we crave that ache between our ventricles, and hope there are no rocks in our pockets.
November sits across from me at the table, a playful grin upon her lips, and a slight mischievous glint in her eyes. I can only twirl the rapidly cooling cup of tea between my hands and stare at the world outside the window. Icicles melt slowly filling the otherwise quiet air with the soft dripping sound of water against glass. November chuckles, but says nothing. I wonder about time, and the rushing of the seasons, as we float unnoticed into the astral blue of the sky. The world is tinted white, and bright, and I find comfort in the solidly brown color of the wood table. I try to stay still. I try to be invisible. I try to feel time against my skin, to recognize it as it eats at my pores, to gently grab it between my fingers and swallow it whole. But I could never be still enough. Nothing could, nothing is. I cannot stop the slight movement of my chest as it rises and falls, or the turn of the world as it continues to float, or November licking her lips and laughing at my bemused face, while, in the briefest of moment, the melting icicles start to freeze again, and snow covers the land. I cannot stop time, and nobody knows better than November as she rises from her chair and walks out of the room, leaving me alone once more.
To Be In Love Must Be: Cerulean ache, and azure kingfisher flicker, with your flitting hummingbird pulse, your delirious blood thrumming: the siren song on the rocks, the discordant crashing, blood thrumming, harp song keening spring and dull ache pervading winter, endless brief tragi-comedy which ends with you scraping your knees on the pavement by the corner shop (just like you were five)
Best book(s) you've read so far this year? Worst? Most surprising? Most disappointing?
Book questions! Yeah! I’ve read so many good books this year, but let’s see…
The Waves, by Virginia Woolf Ella Minnow Pea, by Mark Dunn Jellicoe Road, by Melina Marchetta The Collector, by John Fowles The Lost Garden, by Helen Humphreys The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making, by Catherynne M. Valente The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate, by Jacqueline Kelly (among others)
The Girl with Glass Feet, by Ali Shaw Scones and Sensibility, by Lindsey Elan The Iron Witch, Karen Mahoney
The Collector, by John Fowles Birthmarked, by Caragh M. O’Brien The Moth Diaries, by Rachel Kelin Across the Universe, Beth Revis
The Girl With Glass Feet, by Ali Shaw The History of Love, by Nicole Krauss The Iron Witch, by Karen Mahoney
My mind is a whirlpool and I am water, elusive and slippery. Endless circles of thoughts, feelings, and fears. A perfect storm. Keep slipping from between my fingers, with no firm grip on my self. Scattered, and everywhere, flowing away, stretching along the days, relentlessly. I have no ground. And if I think I can hold all of my currents inside my self, all contained within my ribcage (in a salt water pool with even tides and a sailboat beside my heart), I find there are always small leaks behind my ears or between my toes or at the corners of my eyes. But winter is coming, I can feel it in the air, hear her name on the wind. I am waiting for the cold. The solidity and sureness of gleaming, strong ice. To become my own iceberg (and still that ship anchored beside my right ventricle, and the call of selkies under my lungs, safe and contained and calm). I am waiting for my self to freeze.