Dear WordPress,
I may have asked you this before, but for the love of all things holy PLEASE remove this quote from your trove of inspirational sayings for writers:
“Dreams are illustrations from the book your soul is writing about you.”
It is attributed to one Marsha Norman, who ought to be seriously rebuked for composing such hooey.
Xoxo,
ID
The leaves were falling from the great oak at the meadow’s edge. They were falling from all the trees.
One branch of the oak reached high above the others and stretched far out over the meadow. Two leaves clung to its very tip.
“It isn’t the way it used to be,” said one leaf to the other.
“No, ” the other leaf answered. “So many of us have fallen off tonight we’re almost the only ones left on our branch.”
“You never know who’s going to go next,” said the first leaf. “Even when it was warm and the sun shone, a storm or a cloudburst would come sometimes, and many leaves were torn off, though they were still young. You never know who’s going to go next.”
“The sun seldom shines now,” sighed the second leaf, “and when it does, it gives no warmth. We must have warmth again.”
“Can it be true,” said the first leaf, “can it really be true, that others come to take our places when we’re gone and after them still others, and more and more?”
“It is really true,” whispered the second leaf. “We can’t even begin to imagine it, it’s beyond our powers.”
“It makes me very sad,” added the first leaf.
They were silent a while. Then the first leaf said quietly to herself, “Why must we fall?…”
The second leaf asked, “What happens to us when we have fallen?”
“We sink down…”
“What is under us?”
The first leaf answered, “I don’t know, some say one thing, some another, but nobody knows.”
“The second leaf asked, “Do we feel anything, do we know anything about ourselves when we’re down there?”
The first leaf answered, “Who knows? Not one of all those down there has ever come back to tell us about it.”
They were silent again. Then the first leaf said tenderly to the other, “Don’t worry so much about it, you’re trembling.”
“That’s nothing,” the second leaf answered, “I tremble at the least thing now. I don’t feel so sure of my hold as I used to.”
“Let’s not talk any more about such things,” said the first leaf.
The other replied, “No, we’ll let be. But––what else shall we talk about?” She was silent, but went on after a little while. “Which of us will go first?”
“There’s still plenty of time to worry about that,” the other leaf assured her. “Let’s remember how beautiful it was, how wonderful, when the sun came out and shone so warmly that we thought we’d burst with life. Do you remember? And the morning dew, and the mild and splendid nights…”
“Now the nights are dreadful,” the second leaf complained, “and there is no end to them.”
“We shouldn’t complain,” said the first leaf gently. “We’ve outlived many, many others.”
“Have I changed much?” asked the second leaf shyly but determinedly.
“Not in the least,” the first leaf assured her. “You only think so because I’ve got to be so yellow and ugly. But it’s different in your case.”
“You’re fooling me,” the second leaf said.
“No, really,” the first leaf exclaimed eagerly, “Believe me, you’re as lovely as the day you were born. Here and there may be a little yellow spot but it’s hardly noticeable and it makes you handsomer, believe me.”
“Thanks,” whispered the second leaf, quite touched. “I don’t believe you, not altogether, but I thank you because you’re so kind, you’ve always been so kind to me. I’m just beginning to understand how kind you are.”
“Hush,” said the other leaf, and kept silent herself for she was too troubled to talk any more.
Then they were both silent. Hours passed.
A moist wind blew, cold and hostile, through the treetops.
“Ah, now,” said the second leaf, “I…” Then her voice broke off. She was torn from her place and spun down.
Winter had come.
Sometimes you say or think of pure gems while feeling tortured and frenzied by words.
“A grasshopper is to a martini what a strawberry Frappaccino is to an espresso.”
“Medicaid fraud! That is gold.”
Plus, for good measure, a limerick I found in an old notebook. I guess I wrote it? But it might have been a collaborative effort between me and my brother:
Katherine Heigl
Oh, you stocky wench
Can I suspend disbelief
When you play a doc?
Another one! I’m far less prepared this time. Far more nervous. Wish me luck, everyone! Here are some things that are on my mind as I begin:
The Collyer Brothers
This quote, from E.L. Doctorow: Asked about his writing routine, Mr. Doctorow smiled slyly and said: “Here’s how it goes: I’m up at the stroke of 10 or 10:30. I have breakfast and read the papers, and then it’s lunchtime. Then maybe a little nap after lunch and out to the gym, and before I know it, it’s time to have a drink.”
Mid-life crises
The Florida Panhandle
By the Evolution Store.
(Still want to realize my great butterfly artwork. )
My dad’s out of office message for this week:
“I am in Montana on Monday and Tuesday seeking large trout.”
Found while researching “Waiting for G-dot…”
Yesterday evening I was walking to this thing called a Death Cafe, recently featured in the Times. The reporter summed up the salon as follows: “Offshoots of the “café mortel” movement that emerged in Switzerland and France about 10 years ago, these are not grief support groups or end-of-life planning sessions, but rather casual forums for people who want to bat around philosophical thoughts. What is death like? Why do we fear it? How do our views of death inform the way we live?” I was curious but slightly annoyed that it was going to take place in an IHOP (IHOP in Manhattan?!) when I exited my office. And then, right outside, was the silent scene of an obviously terrible motorcycle accident. The bike lay in pieces on the road, and there was a body covered in a white sheet smack in the center of the intersection. Gawkers lined the streets––policemen were just standing idly as well, because what could they do at that point?––and I stopped and stared for a moment and then continued on toward Death Cafe, where my table-mates included a woman who believes in Singularity (ooookay) and a gay Buddhist with the words “not nothing” tattooed to his forearm.
Good morning to you.
Wakey wakey.
From a friend’s (currently) unpublished memoir:
Read me.
When you’re like me and suffer from SBD (Sunday Blues Syndrome) usually the only thing that can possibly help is poetry. For the past hour, I’ve been crying over THIS SHIT (OMG) but considering the whole Internet is fawning over this man, perhaps I ought to make people branch out a little. Below is my good friend (and sometimes-subject) Matthue Roth’s poem, “The Other Universe of Paris Hilton.” Cheer up, Charlie.
There’s an alternate universe
where Paris Hilton has her shit together
and I’m a drunken heiress.
I show up fashionably late
to her party, having already
knocked back a few
and knocked out her bartender.
The reason why escapes me
but it would have been a great story
if you were there.
And, in this case
“fashionably late” means 5 a.m.,
Too late for the last guests to appreciate me
but not too late
for them to catch shards of glass
from the falling crystal
I crash into
on their way out.
I’m shaking my head,
crying all over the ruins
of the party
tasting salty vodka tears.
“Dammit,” I sniffle
“it isn’t fair.
I fucked up again
kissed Prince’s girlfriend at the afterparty
had a drunken orgy
with Christina Ricci
and 2 former Spice Girls
traded one of my six Swiss
bank accounts for coke
and did it off the roof
of my Hum-V
clocking ninety
off the chest of this underage nymphet.”
Then I proceed to lurch
a souvenir of the evening
all over the Persian rug
that Paris worked
285 shifts at Wal-Mart
to pay for.
Luckily,
she doesn’t notice.
She’s by the medicine cabinet
with an ace bandage,
Neosporin,
and some orange juice.
“Don’t worry,”
she consoles me,
“in another world
you’re an Orthodox Jew.
You pray to G-d constantly
You never break anyone’s heart
Girls don’t only want you for your body
People call to confide in you
at six in the morning
and you never, ever
get laid.”
“So in this other universe,” I say,
“what are you?”
“Oh,” says Paris,
brushing away a tear,
“don’t concern yourself
with that.”
