Musings

I am writing this account, in another man’s book, by candlelight, inside the belly of a fish.

Edward Carey, The Swallowed Man

Memory is a map of sorts, but hand drawn, incomplete, and full of errors. It can let you know a place exists, but you cannot trust it to get you there.

Charlie Kaufman, Antkind

In some countries you kill a monster when it’s born.

Other places, you kill it only when it kills someone else.

Other places, you let it go, out into the forest or the sea, and it lives there forever, calling for others of its kind.

Maria Dahvana Headley, The Mere Wife

There will be another shore after the rapids, I promise.

Margaret Atwood, Words to Live By, Vogue January 2021

Glass as day-blooming flower,
television as mortar shell. Television as volleyball against white sun.
Sun as broken glass, in fragments,
glass as crazy paving on street below.
Power cord as vapour trail.
White smoke as cigarette smoke,
smoke as wedding dress pulled through water,
smoke as blood in water.
Glass as water on street below.
Pavement cracks as broken glass as x-ray
held to box of light. Television as broken wrist.
Power cord as skywriting, as Marry Me
on biplane banner. Television as biplane.
Television as bird. White flower growing
in pavement crack as open hand.
Glass as broken glass.

Martha Sprackland, Domestic