"“I can’t say anything,” she closes (176). That phrase means she can’t do anything to change anything. From here she regresses to yelping and tries to dig a hole in the ground, to become the size she feels, and also to become, in a sense, an embodiment of the last thing she loved. After that, Dorothy goes crazy, lives in a fantasy world of her own, wandering homeless and free, especially, of the capacity to reflect on loss in the modalities of realism, tragedy, or melodrama. To protect her last iota of optimism, she goes crazy."
This morning at 4:00 a.m. I woke up to the blaring porch light shinning at me through my window from across the parking lot behind my room.
I was thinking about the river, the mucky green color of the water and the bare light bulbs above the plastic screen doors, covered in flies, mosquitos, nats at night like a moth to a flame and then I was thinking about the back deck of the lake house, moss on the black metal, the sound the insects make in the night.
I used to spend so many hours in those waters. I thought about my swimsuits, the two pieces the one pieces, my lungs sometimes aching from so much swimming, my reflection in the sliding glass door, my friend telling me I had a pretty body:
becoming conscious of my body,
the leaking pools of youth.
I felt my heart racing and I knew I was a child.
Today I felt my eyes racing and I thought I was a child for a second there and then I felt this separation in my head, separated by the time and the distance and the everything in between now and then, I felt like a child in another person’s body: becoming conscious of my body.
When I was a child I always used to imagine that one day I could wake up as someone else, with the same mind but in a different body. I remember that I figured that it must be so close and so easy to just switch like that because all that was separating us was skin and I felt like the power of my soul was enough to jump out and go anywhere.
I suppose that in a way we choose what we remember and I don’t know why I choose to remember what I do.In the moment of the separation my life was flashing before my eyes: the plastic trays of cafeterias, the white tea and the woman from the green café who picked lilacs from my front yard and told me how to boil the water to steep the leaves without burning them, the summer heat, the intensity, the girl who threw that rock at my car.
I was thinking about my father and about my mother and how I am the child of the river and the waves of the great lakes.
I was the child of the river and the waves of the great lakes.
Estados Unidos debe ser un país lindo porque todas las canciones de amor que escucho en el taxi cuando voy a lugares están en inglés, y vienen de Estados Unidos.
Canciones de amor increíbles como de un planeta insondable.
as matter: table, the torn veils of spiders ... Even consciousness— missing my love—
was matter, the metal box of a furnace. As the obligated flame, so burned my life ...
What is the meaning of this suffering I asked and the voice—not Christ but between us— said you are the meaning.
No no, I replied, That is the shape, what is the meaning. You are the meaning, it said—
.
Isn’t it always like this? Something uncontrollable becomes the hero, Taking off its dress, the ice plants Sunburn from the center out So we can see that their deaths
Of splendid rust and yellow are not ours, We are allowed again the glare Of the sand, the druid hills, The grasses brushing the legs, though Just to have felt it once would have been enough.
"It happens very often that a man has it in him, that a man does something, that he does it very often that he does many things, when he is a young man when he is an old man, when he is an older man. One of such of these kind of them had a little boy and this one, the little son wanted to make a collection of butterflies and beetles and it was all exciting to him and it was all arranged then and then the father said to the son you are certain this is not a cruel thing that you are wanting to be doing, killing things to make collections of them, and the son was very disturbed then and they talked about it together the two of them and more and more they talked about it then and then at last the boy was convinced it was a cruel thing and he said he would not do it and his father said the little boy was a noble boy to give up pleasure when it was a cruel one. The boy went to bed then and then the father when he got up in the early morning saw a wonderfully beautiful moth in the room and he caught him and he killed him and he pinned him and he woke up his son then and showed it to him and he said to him see what a good father I am to have caught and killed this one, the boy was all mixed up inside him and then he said he would go on with his collecting and that was all there was then of discussing and this is a little description of something that happened once and it is very interesting."
My knees became water and when he told me not to cry because they would think that he was trying to hurt me I felt the ocean in my abdomen spill out from between my legs and both of us were drowned.
.
'I'd like to have a pastry. We can have it on the go. Sure. Just let me get my wallet. I have zero dollars so we are even."
.
Crossing the pink bridge under a blue sky the boy in the black and white said, "I'm going to be in a major motion picture."
.
almost espasmo, the heat made it palpitate.
.
"he had a thing for asphyxiation. he wanted to push my head under the snow but i wouldn't let him."
“it is such a beautiful day I had to write you a letter
From the tower, and to show I’m not mad;
I only slipped on the cake of soap of the air
And drowned in the bathtub of the world."
