we broke all the clean dishes."
we broke all the clean dishes."
Silly Things by Wild Child,
or, the story of you and me.
can’t think of a better way to start the day than dancing this little peanut around the hardwoods to Van Morrison & Paul Simon so her hardworking mama could get some zZZ’s // “these are the days of miracle & wonder (don’t cry baby don’t cry)”
Tycho, Awake. This exactly.
— Jenny Offill, Dept. of Speculation (via losertakesall)
“You normally have to be bashed about a bit by life to see the point of daffodils, sunsets, and uneventful nice days.” -Alain de Botton (quote via waxenneat)
My favorite book went out of print the week after we ended things, and I’d given him my last copy. He brought it the weekend we spent at his mother’s beach house, and I turned it over in my hands one morning as he made coffee. “There’s a line,” I say, “when Gnade is talking about seeing an old man visiting a gravestone in Lone Fir cemetery and he writes, ‘they were the only ones who,’” and he finishes the sentence for me, smiling, “‘held off each other’s wolves.’ I like that line too.” We had sex on the small couch in the living room, throw pillows all thrown to the floor, while the coffee got cold. I never called it making love when we were together, but looking back, that time, that’s what it was, when it was that I fell in love with him. One of the times, at least. That weekend, we made love hiking along the coast and running into the freezing waves, diving under, drying off and shivering into each other, we made love when I met his mother and the friends he grew up with, we made love every cold morning that winter as I danced around the kitchen barefoot waiting for the coffee to brew, just as much as we did on that couch.
Another time was when he hit his head skateboarding and called me to drive him home. He told me, toward the end, that it had been one of his favorite memories of me, how I dropped what I was doing, abandoned my own friends and plans and showed up and drove him and his friends home. He never knew that it was one of my favorite memories of him as well. I tend to believe that you fall in love with a person as much in doing acts of kindness for them, as you do for being on the receiving end of that kindness. The moment I loved him most in a car: driving him home, when he was hurt and tired and pissed off.
When you share your favorite things with another person, you never think about having to ask for them back. It is very difficult to keep a thing you love from a person you love, so I give them freely, carelessly, and then I’m left without my grandfather’s wedding band because we exchanged it one night in a joking wedding ceremony, without my favorite documentary that he still hasn’t watched, without my favorite book that is now out of print. It isn’t as difficult to take back the things that still belong to you with no grey area: a toothbrush and phone charger and the clothing you kept at his house. But the gifts you gave, long before the end, are you allowed to get them back? Does he even still want them? Do you? I comfort myself in their being mostly material things, but I wish it was a different line from the book that I couldn’t get out of my head. I take the card he gave me down from my refrigerator, I take off his shirt that I’ve been sleeping in for a week and put it in the laundry. No one did anything wrong or hurtful, so the movements to remove him from my apartment feel dramatic. But Sunday night, which was once my favorite time of the week, without him, once my favorite person, I don’t know what else to do with my hands. Sunday night, there is no one to hold off the wolves of loneliness, this most unoriginal of feelings, and seeing bits of him around me accentuate his absence. Maybe I want him to keep the book, because at least it will remind him of me, and he doesn’t even seem sad. What if he threw it away? Sunday night, these thoughts, the wolves. I take out the trash, delete Facebook from my phone, throw my sheets into the hamper on top of his shirt.
— Amy Lowell
happy birthday John Steinbeck!