thinkcink.net

Dear Cindy the non-writer,

Are you not ashamed? Where are the words? What happened?

Remember you wanted to write about your fantastic birthday surprises? The ones that made you tear and smile at the same time? The ones that made it that much easier to say 30s is the new 20s?

Remember you came up with this great one-liner about kittens? You wrote it down, didn’t you? You what!

Remember that dream you had about saying goodbye to a friend that made you cry, because it felt too real? What do you mean the moment has passed?

What about your holiday to Tokyo? Surely there’s great fodder there. It’s Tokyo! The land of the underwear vending machines (we didn’t find any), Hello Kitty (we took picture with one) and The Niece Who Strangles Your Heartstrings! Right. You can’t talk about an ongoing hostage situation.

Man, I don’t know what to do with you. What happened to all these great moments? You do realise your life (in the new 20s) is slipping right by you, every day, when you are not writing? At least, your memory of your life is slipping by — we all know what old age does to one’s grey matter. What’s the point of doing something great, if you don’t remember that you did it? There’s a philosophical question we can think about. A 1000-word essay right there for ya, there you go!

I look forward to your great work in the coming days. Buck up, you fool. The blog isn’t going to feed itself. [Y'know, a blog feed? Y'know? *echoes of no-o-o-o*]

love much,
Cindy the narcissistic reader

It’s not often that I quote twice from the same book. But Leah Hager Cohen’s heart, you bully, you punk deserves a second mention:

“Her hair is wet again, and there’s slush in her boots, but it’s not enough. She’s still too big for this cage, too powerful for these elements. Let it be a blizzard. Let the river rise into a tidal wave. Let the slushy whoosh of the traffic become a true, drowning roar she could really sing against, screech against. Let there be one thing big enough to assume the burden of her.”

* * *

Some days ago, I went swimming. Some fifteen laps into it, the sky turned angry and it started pouring. First, gusts of wind created mini waves and the air seemed almost cold. After that brief warning, huge blobs of water started dropping into the pool like stones. I continued swimming. The water bombs pelting on my arms at every stroke, rain mixed with splashes of the chlorinated water falling into my mouth when i surfaced for air. Through my goggles, I could see the blue surface fighting and resisting the rain, yet under the surface, it was peaceful and unchanged.

I can’t explain it. It was a moment of clarity.

Just as I talk about not falling in love. I fall, vicariously:

“Iphigenia Esker?” He says this as though it’s an extraordinary but necessary hurdle to go through.
“My middle name is Julia.” She can’t look at him.
“Iphigenia Julia Esker?”
“What?”
“Can I kiss you for a minute?”
She considers. He’s still sitting across the table. “It kind of seems like a business proposition. A transaction.”
“I didn’t bring any contracts.”
“No.”
“Maybe we could negotiate this on a handshake.”
“Okay.” She sticks her hand out across the table. Wally shakes her hand. He registers no surprise at her excellent grip. Then, for a long time, they don’t kiss, and they don’t get up and they don’t speak and they don’t let go of each other’s hand.

After a while Esker whispers, “Did you say for a minute or in a minute?” and Wally’s eyes, so plain and smart, register wit, but neither of them stops what they are doing with their hands, which is not a handshake anymore, but something unhurried and unscripted, and unprecedented in her history.”

Oh swoon!

I want a man who asks to kiss me, and then holds my hand. Certainly unprecedented.

It’s awful that I’m putting up two quotes in a row. But I can’t get this one out of my mind. From John Mayer:

Life is like a box of crayons. Most people are the 8-color boxes, but what you’re really looking for are the 64-color boxes with the sharpeners on the back. I fancy myself to be a 64-color box, though I’ve got a few missing. It’s ok though, because I’ve got some more vibrant colors like periwinkle at my disposal. I have a bit of a problem though in that I can only meet the 8-color boxes. Does anyone else have that problem? I mean there are so many different colors of life, of feeling, of articulation.. so when I meet someone who’s an 8-color type.. I’m like, “hey girl, magenta!” and she’s like, “oh, you mean purple!” and she goes off on her purple thing, and I’m like, “no - I want magenta!”

This made me smile. I want to write like this.

“I got a crush on everybody. My math teacher. The bus driver. The bus boy. God, I used to get up in the dark and wait at the window to see the paper boy.”

“Always men?”

Ella nodded. “They hadn’t invented women yet, then,” she said.

– Half Past Four, Ursula Le Guin