Today was perfect chocolate chip cookies, Anastasia, french index cards, a sad ending to a new book, christmas raspberry tea with honey, cuddling and writing letters at my desk beneath my fairy lights.
Like Crazy feat. Felicity Jones, Anton Yelchin and Jennifer Lawrence
“I thought I understood it, that I could grasp it, but I didn’t, not really. Only the smudgeness of it; the pink-slippered, all-containered, semi-precious eagerness of it.
I didn’t realize it would sometimes be more than whole, that the wholeness was a rather luxurious idea. Because it’s the halves that have you in half. I didn’t know, don’t know, about the in-between bits; the gory bits of you, and the gory bits of me.”
My Heart With You // The Rescues
My love, the reason I survive,
trust we’ll be together soon
Should our fire turn to dark,
take my heart with you
traipsing through forests in banff in my new wool coat with jesse.
we’re planning another banff trip for february break! hopefully we’ll get more pictures of the mountains. sigh it is so beautiful there.
Today was: finished homework (!!!), news from my pen pals, a little pond where jesse took me ice skating, a spontaneous decision to go into town to get chocolate milkshakes in whatever we were wearing at 11:30 (which happened to be my red-hot silk robe!) and lying in char’s bed listening to 90’s cartoons until 2 am. A fabulous tuesday indeed.
What happens if you fall in love with a writer?
Lots of things might happen. That’s the thing about writers. They’re unpredictable. They might bring you eggs in bed for breakfast, or they might all but ignore you for days. They might bring you eggs in bed at three in the morning. Or they might wake you up for sex at three in the morning. Or make love at four in the afternoon. They might not sleep at all. Or they might sleep right through the alarm and forget to get you up for work. Or call you home from work to kill a spider. Or refuse to speak to you after finding out you’ve never seen To Kill A Mockingbird. Or spend the last of the rent money on five kinds of soap. Or sell your textbooks for cash halfway through the semester. Or leave you love notes in your pockets. Or wash you pants with Post-It notes in the pockets so your laundry comes out covered in bits of wet paper. They might cry if the Post-It notes are unread all over your pants. It’s an unpredictable life.
But what happens if a writer falls in love with you?
This is a little more predictable. You will find your hemp necklace with the glass mushroom pendant around the neck of someone at a bus stop in a short story. Your favorite shoes will mysteriously disappear, and show up in a poem. The watch you always wear, the watch you own but never wear, the fact that you’ve never worn a watch: they suddenly belong to characters you’ve never known. And yet they’re you. They’re not you; they’re someone else entirely, but they toss their hair like you. They use the same colloquialisms as you. They scratch their nose when they lie like you. Sometimes they will be narrators; sometimes protagonists, sometimes villains. Sometimes they will be nobodies, an unimportant, static prop. This might amuse you at first. Or confuse you. You might be bewildered when books turn into mirrors. You might try to see yourself how your beloved writer sees you when you read a poem about someone who has your middle name or prose about someone who has never seen To Kill A Mockingbird. These poems and novels and short stories, they will scatter into the wind. You will wonder if you’re wandering through the pages of some story you’ve never even read. There’s no way to know. And no way to erase it. Even if you leave, a part of you will always be left behind.
If a writer falls in love with you, you can never die.
