Here, in the room of my life the objects keep changing. Ashtrays to cry into, the suffering brother of the wood walls, the forty-eight keys of the typewriter each an eyeball that is never shut, the books, each a contestant in a beauty contest, the black chair, a dog coffin made of Naugahyde, the sockets on the wall waiting like a cave of bees, the gold rug a conversation of heels and toes, the fireplace a knife waiting for someone to pick it up, the sofa, exhausted with the exertion of a whore, the phone two flowers taking root in its crotch, the doors opening and closing like sea clams, the lights poking at me, lighting up both the soil and the laugh. The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart. Each day I feed the world out there although birds explode right and left. I feed the world in here too, offering the desk puppy biscuits. However, nothing is just what it seems to be. My objects dream and wear new costumes, compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my hands and the sea that bangs in my throat.
“The sounds were distinct in his ear but they had no shape or meaning. It was as though his head were the prow of a boat and the sounds were water that broke on him and then flowed past. He felt he had to look behind to find the words already said.”—
An excerpt from “The Heart is a Lonely Hunter” by Carson McCullers, who published it when she was 23 years old.
I recently finished reading this. I cannot tell you how many times I paused and reread passages just to let their magic linger a little longer.
n. the moment a conversation becomes real, which occurs when a spark of trust crosses the room and jolts the delicate circuits you keep insulated under layers of irony, momentarily grounding the static emotional charge you’ve built up through decades of friction with the world.
I walked myself to the ER at 5 a.m. this morning. Sitting in a blue plastic chair and wearing yesterday’s clothes, I noticed that everyone around me in the waiting room was waiting with someone. I was waiting alone. And then I realized it was Monday, July 4th.
Every 4th of July my neighbors in LA make a fireworks spectacle and throw a giant block party. I would watch the fireworks explode from the hammock in my backyard. I would do this until I grew sleepy or cold in my pajamas.
Tonight, I would do anything to be back in that hammock.