“Make up a story. Narrative is radical, creating us at the very moment it is being created. We will not blame you if your reach exceeds your grasp; if love so ignites your words they go down in flames and nothing is left but their scald. Or if, with the reticence of a surgeon’s hands, your words suture only the places where blood might flow. We know you can never do it properly—once and for all. Passion is never enough; neither is skill. But try. For our sake and yours forget your name in the street; tell us what the world has been to you in the dark places and in the light. … Language alone protects us from the scariness of things with no names.”—Toni Morrison, from the 1993 Nobel Prize lecture (source)
“What I have done is to show that it is possible for the way the universe began to be determined by the laws of science. In that case, it would not be necessary to appeal to God to decide how the universe began. This doesn’t prove that there is no God, only that God is not necessary.”—Stephen Hawking (via atomos)
My aunt offered to give me the feet of the chickens she’s killing and I got really excited. Chicken feet are cool.
By the way, did you know that chicken feet move when you cut them off the leg of a dead chicken? I didn’t. I was watching her skin the thing and when she went to cut off the leg the damn thing GRABBED HER WRIST. I may have freaked the fuck out. But only a little.
She said it was the tendons or something. I know the truth. Zombie chickens, you guys.
How horrible could sleeping in a car be? Find a job in some back end town waitressing. Leave when I need to. Keep moving. One day I can settle down. When my muscles are sore and groaning, when my bones creak with the strain of old age. When my mind says “yes. here. here is where I will rest my weary soul and soak my soles and calm my wandering heart.” Then a house. Then a hut. A serene hut in the woods with my kin, with the forest, with a vegetable garden and broad sunflowers, turning to face the sun. Grotesque and human-like. I will converse with them. I will sing to them as means of nourishment. I will craft clothing for myself. I will be self-sufficient. I will change my life. I will not sink into complacency with a half-life, unlived. I will seek my ideal. I will seek it actively. I will run away from the lies I’ve been told all my life. I will question. I will doubt. I will love the ones I’m told not to and I will suspect the ones I’m told to trust. I will dance and I will be free. Dolores, my boots, and me. Wide, expansive vistas painted by the colors of sunset. Plains speckled by wildflowers. Purple mountains fucking majesty. Feathers in my hair, wind dancing across my face, dirt beneath my fingernails and ribbons about my neck. How horrible could that life be?
I’ve been due for a cleansing of my belongings for a long time, now. I just have too much shit. It’s shit I don’t even use. Weighing me down. Tying me to one place. But what would I do without my pile of unused picture frames and a painted Mardi Gras mask from 2 years ago? How will I survive this deprivation?
Okay. I’m just putting this all in garbage bags and dumping it off at Goodwill. Maybe I should just get rid of everything. Everything I own. I have TOO MUCH SHIT. I’ll just start fresh. 5 shirts. 5 skirts. 5 pairs of socks. My boots. My books. My journal. My cameras. My laptop. My music. I will pile them into a shitty old car that I name Dolores. I will gas her up. And I will head in one direction until I get bored. And then I’ll just go in another.
My mom’s talking to me about credit ratings and my first apartment and equity. I don’t know how to tell her “Hahahaha, no, no. I don’t think so. That’s not even close to where I see my life going.”
“We may enjoy our room in the tower, with the painted walls and the commodious bookcases, but down in the garden there is a man digging who buried his father this morning, and it is he and his like who live the real life and speak the real language.”—Virginia Woolf, The Common Reader. (1925)