Summer sneaks up on us. It tiptoes in with the first 5:30 sunrise sometime in late spring, and it lies in wait with the green tomatoes, scrappy and promising. It doesn’t make a fuss; there’s no ruckus or fanfare. But slowly—so easy, instinctive, almost imperceptible—it takes over. With the first tentative jump of the thermometer, we slip off our long sleeves, our socks, our boots and pullovers and wool pants. The windows fall open; the blankets throw themselves back; and everything, whether by reason or reflex, warms and awakens. The onset of summer is, to hijack a (completely unrelated) quote by former U.S poet laureate Stanley Kunitz, “like stepping into the ocean when the temperature of the water is not much different from that of the air. You scarcely know, until you feel the undertow tug at you, that you have entered into another element.” Whether by way of a juice-heavy tomato; a flawless spicy-sweet peach; or maybe a black plum, shimmering darkly on a shady table, looking eerily like a sparkly lure at the end of a fishing line—when it comes to summer, we’re all an easy catch.
But between summer and me, it’s not so much a matter of luring and trapping: it’s more a mad embrace, half-hunger, half-hysteria. I may not be the quickest to feel the season’s tug, but when it comes, I throw myself at summer, and shamelessly so. I spit the pits out the window, lick avocado from the knife; I snare corn between my teeth and snag my fingers on the blackberry bush. I hold on tight while I can, because after all, I’m working with a finite deadline: just as quietly as it came, summer will go. It’s a system of catch and release, if you will. And if the calendar is to be believed, the release will come awfully soon.
Clever girl. You play with fire because you want to be burnt.
War does not determine who is right - only who is left.
My parents would frisk me before family events. Before weddings, funerals, bar mitzvahs, and what have you. Because if they didn’t, then the book would be hidden inside some pocket or other and as soon as whatever it was got under way I’d be found in a corner. That was who I was…that was what I did. I was the kid with the book.
i am not the story
you have been told.
i am not pure
i am not your fantasy
of an innocent you can corrupt.
you think he took me?
you think i knew not what i did
when i laughed and placed those crimson seeds
upon my tongue?
do not mistake my kindness
i am forest fires and flower buds
i am poisonous thorns and newborn foals
i am death and rebirth—
cross me at your peril.
(you shall find that pretty rose vines
are just as lovely when they wrap tight over your limbs
and shatter your bones.)
my lord, he brings me wreaths of bloodstained flowers,
and i grant him kisses laced with venom
he gifts me graveyards to plant my orchids
and i send him the torn heads of men
who wrong my maidens.
(i teach them combat alongside botany. both are arts.)
he rules with iron fist and i
with gentle touch.
we live and love in a curious harmony
of sweet birdsong
and the tortured screams of sinners.
come springtide i am bound to earth
to my mother’s sunfilled meadows,
her unequivocal, enduring love.
and by the fading light of summer
i return to my lover’s onyx walls
and cimmerian heart.
i cherish both but they know
they would have no claim on me if i did not desire it
for i belong to myself,
i am only my own—
half blooming creation,
half blazing hellfire.
he calls me his lady
but he knows
i am a queen.
I was dying to
That I didn’t need
to try so hard to be perfect,
That i was enough
it was okay
Don’t you dare
For someone else’s comfort -
Do not become small
For people who refuse to grow.
A thousand moments that I had just taken for granted- mostly because I had assumed that there would be a thousand more.
Writing isn’t about making money, getting famous, getting dates, getting laid, or making friends. In the end it’s about enriching the lives of those who will read your work, and enriching your own life as well. It’s about getting up, getting well, and getting over. Getting happy, okay? Getting happy. …this book…is a permission slip: you can, you should, and if you’re brave enough to start, you will. Writing is magic, as much the water of life as any other creative art. The water is free.
Drink and be filled up.
Life is to be enjoyed, not endured.
Nobody can avoid falling in love. They might want to deny it, but friendship is probably the most common form of love.
I love to see a young girl go out and grab the world by the lapels. Life’s a bitch. You’ve got to go out and kick ass.
Writers are shrewd beings with perpetually half-empty cups. They would always ponder and write about pondering. It is their biological abnormality, to feel so damn much out of the simplest of things. They would eradicate your very notions in life. Tie a string of words…
I don’t believe in fate, she said at last. But I do believe in…loopholes. I think a lot of what keeps the world going is the result of accidents — happy or otherwise — and taking advantage of these.