Nightlighttenment

You stop reading for a while, maybe accidently, maybe purposely, maybe both. You maneuver—both subtly and sharply—into a land where there is no time for such things; exhaustion wins, iPhone games overrule. Then you read something great and think, Holy Shit. You read an article in Wired and think, My god, that was well put-together. You aimlessly—finally—browse those piled-up, unread issues of Harper’s and laugh, almost cry, and remark—out loud—to yourself, “Fuck.”

For the past few weeks I’ve been doing everything in the dark; someone flipped on the switch, and I now see, Oh yes, everything’s much better this way.

It’s baffling I could forget the enjoyment of words, the turns of phrases, the dichotomy of diction. Do you write to live or live to write? I’m sure that’s some well-worn cliché—but suspend the rules: Isn’t it both? Ignoring the financial implication and taking it literally: Wouldn’t I die if I didn’t write?
Don’t I start to every time I forsake it or ignore it because I’m too busy; too stressed; too distracted? So I feel like I’m experiencing the Age of Enlightenment from a short story about a father, a fishing hook and a rabbit; from a list of descriptions of the sun compiled by Alzheimer’s patients; from an essay on modernity’s twisted take on happiness and suffering that reflects what I’ve been saying all along but of course says it a thousand times more eloquently and articulately. And—because I am Enlightened!—I must finally write, because I’m writing in my head as I shower, afraid I’m going to lose the Enlightment!, so I must get it down on paper (albeit virtual paper); must overuse semi-colons because Why not? this is writing and it can be whatever I want. I could BEGIN WRITING IN CAPS IF I PLEASED, MERELY BECAUSE THE OPTION HAS BEEN PLACED BEFORE ME AND IT IS YET ONE MORE WAY TO CONVEY MEANING.

But of course, the fervor, as it must, as it always does, won’t last. It will retreat slowly, unnoticed as time passes, because Enlightenment! cannot last—if it did I might die from sheer pleasure—because it comes in waves, rolling in and out, sometimes the tide lasting longer than others. So I hope, probably naively and uselessly, that this one can last; that I can read and recognize the well-done as I devour; that I can appreciate the crafting and refining—the shaping of the big: the theme, the angle, and the minutiae: the nuances, the subtleties, that without them would render words just letters on paper (virtual or otherwise)—before the light gets turned off, and I am once more unaware.

sometimes your brain melts

e-quail
(ˈkwāl\) n.

A technologically savvy avian that has learnt to use its talons for internet pursuits, whether work or personal, and contributes regularly to online quail culture (commonly known as quailture). Most likely proficient in QuailPoint and C++.

hunger

"The more financially independent, in control of events, educated and sexually autonomous women become in the world, the more impoverished, out of control, foolish and sexually insecure we are asked to feel in our bodies."

-Naomi Wolf, The Beauty Myth

Because you can't do work at work all the time, and sometimes you look at lolcats

M: I'm assuming cats need special keyboards since their dexterity is limited.
B: It is? I thought they were nimble, quick and always ready to pounce.
M: They are, certainly, but that lack of movable digits will be their ultimate downfall, because if they can't keep up with technology, they'll be obsolete.
B: So birds will be fine but not dogs and cats?
M: Unfortunately.

This is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

After not being touched or touching someone for a while, accidently brushing hands or arms or knocking knees with a stranger is foreign and uncomfortable for the first few seconds, and then like being hugged tightly and having sweet things whispered in your ear, and ultimately like being pushed out of the car and left on the side of the road.

Dandelion Wine

I'm going to go back.
I'm going to go to the old places I used to wander, play, hide.
I'm going to get coffee and have tea with old friends, old neighbors.
I'm going to spend time with the girl who's really not just my cousin, but my older sister, the only person my age who's known me since I was born, the girl I would do anything for--like eat dog food at age 7 when dared.
I'm going to see the house I grew up in, the woods, the rope swing over the creek.
I'm going to cry and cry and cry and cry.
I'm going to start figuring out what's wrong with me; why I'm stuck; why I let people hurt me over and over; why I don't know what I want; what I want.
I'm going to read and read and read
and write and write and write.
I'm going to get drunk with my cousin while floating on the lake.
I'm going to run around barefoot in the woods and wade through creeks and climb trees and discover the spaces not so often tread on.
I'm going to go to a show by myself at some tiny bar downtown.
I'm going to talk to people I don't know and ask them about themselves and watch their faces and hands while they talk.
I'm going to be alone.
and I'm going to be okay.