21 September 2013
Yes, we’re definitely searching and wandering, because we may not have found it yet, but we’re getting there:
It is not merely happiness we all seek. We seek some place where we belong. For the lucky few, we find it in childhood with our own families. But for most of us we spend our adult lives seeking that place or person or organization that makes us feel that we are important, that we matter, and that without us something would go undone and undoable. We all need to feel that we are irreplaceable.
– from A Lick of Frost by Laurell K. Hamilton
I don’t know how to cite things from Tumblr. Sometimes that feels troublesome to me. Pinterest is great because when it is used properly, it carries its own citation within itself.
All this gathering and searching and collecting makes me feel like a curator.
I love the podcast “Stories From the Border of Sleep”, which you should listen to, because you would love them. Specifically, I listened to “The Wisdom of Things Found” about a man who lives in a shack by the sea and hears the messages within objects, and writes them down and sends them out into the world in bottles on the waves. I listened to it while I was taking a bath yesterday, which felt more than appropriate.
Sometimes you have to live in precarious and temporary places. Unsuitable places. Wrong places. Sometimes the safe place won’t help you.
– from Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal? by Jeanette Winterson
I don’t know if I agree with the title of that book, but I agree with the quote.
All I had to do was ask for more letters, and now I’m finding them everywhere:
Letters swallow themselves in seconds.
Notes friends tied to the doorknob,
transparent scarlet paper,
sizzle like moth wings,
marry the air.
So much of any year is flammable,
lists of vegetables, partial poems.
Orange swirling flame of days,
so little is a stone.
Where there was something and suddenly isn’t,
an absence shouts, celebrates, leaves a space.
I begin again with the smallest numbers.
Quick dance, shuffle of losses and leaves,
only the things I didn’t do
crackle after the blazing dies.
– Burning the Old Year by Naomi Shihab Nye
I don’t think I’ve read enough Naomi Shihab Nye. My friend Corinne has met her. They had lunch. They talked about poetry and letters. I wish I had been there almost more than anything.