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go west. paradise is there.
I have too many things, far too many things. The best thing about this move is the necessity of going through it all. Shedding what I don't need. Which is most of it.
Sometimes I like the thought of living as though I'd have to pack up any day. I'd never be able to do it, but I wish that I could. How freeing that would be, a life devoid of the unnecessary, of clutter.
I am restless, so restless, but there is nowhere to go. (Except west. I will go west one day, someday. Asking nothing of it but a change of scenery. The west is the best. Oh how I love that song.
Ride the snake.)
---
I'm thinking of children again, which frightens and perplexes me. Not three months ago I swore I'd never have the things. Now I pass children on the street and want to snatch them from the strollers and take them home with me.
I'm only twenty years old. Isn't it too soon for that biological clock phenomenon to be setting in?
(I have names, too. Assuming I have daughters - which of course I will, just because - I know what I'll call them. I've passed my brief fixation with "Isobel" and returned to my yearsold favorite, Ellie. I always wanted an Ellie. And Audrey. Ellie and Audrey.)
--
I'll return to Smith in a little over a month. I'm making a list of things I want to do. Things I want to try. This is my time, only mine. I'll have a car, freedom. I have classes that shouldn't be particularly taxing.
There is nothing holding me back, except me, and that's not an option anymore.
(I love this ancient Sanskrit poem, the Chauraspanchasika, translated by E. Powys Mathers and titled "Black Marigolds". It is a shadow of a story of someone who loved and lost, and who approaches the end, remembering. It ends with these lines:
Even now
I know that I have savored the hot taste of life
Lifting green cups and gold at the great feast.
Just for a small and a forgotten time
I have had my full in my eyes from off my girl
The whitest pouring of eternal light.
The heavy knife. As to a gala day.
It's a beautiful shadow, a beautiful poem, and I ache to understand the full story. I found it in a tattered, ancient anthology of world poetry in my grandparents' house last summer, and I've tried since then to learn more about it, to no avail.
But I love that ending, how it speaks. I want my ending to be the same.) (Rough-hew it how I will.)
(My only friend. The end.)
Sometimes I like the thought of living as though I'd have to pack up any day. I'd never be able to do it, but I wish that I could. How freeing that would be, a life devoid of the unnecessary, of clutter.
I am restless, so restless, but there is nowhere to go. (Except west. I will go west one day, someday. Asking nothing of it but a change of scenery. The west is the best. Oh how I love that song.
Ride the snake.)
---
I'm thinking of children again, which frightens and perplexes me. Not three months ago I swore I'd never have the things. Now I pass children on the street and want to snatch them from the strollers and take them home with me.
I'm only twenty years old. Isn't it too soon for that biological clock phenomenon to be setting in?
(I have names, too. Assuming I have daughters - which of course I will, just because - I know what I'll call them. I've passed my brief fixation with "Isobel" and returned to my yearsold favorite, Ellie. I always wanted an Ellie. And Audrey. Ellie and Audrey.)
--
I'll return to Smith in a little over a month. I'm making a list of things I want to do. Things I want to try. This is my time, only mine. I'll have a car, freedom. I have classes that shouldn't be particularly taxing.
There is nothing holding me back, except me, and that's not an option anymore.
(I love this ancient Sanskrit poem, the Chauraspanchasika, translated by E. Powys Mathers and titled "Black Marigolds". It is a shadow of a story of someone who loved and lost, and who approaches the end, remembering. It ends with these lines:
Even now
I know that I have savored the hot taste of life
Lifting green cups and gold at the great feast.
Just for a small and a forgotten time
I have had my full in my eyes from off my girl
The whitest pouring of eternal light.
The heavy knife. As to a gala day.
It's a beautiful shadow, a beautiful poem, and I ache to understand the full story. I found it in a tattered, ancient anthology of world poetry in my grandparents' house last summer, and I've tried since then to learn more about it, to no avail.
But I love that ending, how it speaks. I want my ending to be the same.) (Rough-hew it how I will.)
(My only friend. The end.)