temptation

it's funny.

at least i've come to recognize in myself, the steps

when i become upset, and want something to fill it,

to soothe it.

recognition = the first step

doing something about it? the final and eternal one.

its true after all-

humans are predictable.

i am predictable. =) it is truly strange to realize what you are used to doing, what you do, normally, without even thinking about it, is actually a reaction to something else that happened.

and,

also,

but

i am very happy

that i am different

from other people.

=)

half finished emails bring to mind

thank you, for knowing me.

that is a gift, and it makes me feel less alone, friend.

i like that you laugh at my jokes,

or think im funny.

i like that you know me,

peculiar parts of me,

and delight in them.

i like that what we say is funny

just because it's you, it's me saying them.

and you and me, one becomes significant

because the other exists.

i like the feeling that my heart

might just rest its weary self in front of you, in order

to be refreshed.

i like the thought of long conversations with night

falling outside on the pretty blankets inside.

darkness wrapping around us like comforting arms

as though beckoning us in,

to the land where secrets are possible, permissible

and the words usually shut inside of us are

free to roam, linger, in this strange dark wonderful land.

(they want to hold hands)

i like such nighttimes. it is a time for cookies, a pause in time to enjoy the goodness of

being alive, being able to talk and

speak. - stolen time,

my favorite.

i like that i can come to you

and its a small reflection of myself in the world

a small pool of me that i can trust and hold on to,

enough to discover the rest that makes you different.

i like that i can understand more,

without being destroyed.

without being undone.

i am still whole

because of you.

sometimes i go into the world

and go

into blank walls

they are called strangers.

but they are more like walls.

they bump me around unceremoniously

and unkindly,

without feeling

and i miss you then friend.

i look for you.

i really miss you-

hi, light

resolved:

to write everyday.

or rather,

half-resolved.

=)

either here, or in my fictional magnum opus.

my fictional little magnum opus. pequena opus. better: opus pequena.

i had an important realization today. as i was getting out of my car, in the dark of the basement and readying myself for a day of work, i thought, "am i disappointed in myself?" it echoed and scurried into the shadows of the walls.

"and if so, why?"

i am slightly disappointed myself, because i don't believe i have been exerting the courage to be who i want to be. i have simply been, in my natural state, which is an unthinking and fearful one.

i do not want to be afraid to be.

to be contrary and demanding,

to be dependent and trusting.

to be myself in all gargantuan form.

millions of legs!

octopus legs, flailing ever which way.

and today i kept thinking:

"be who you want to be."

and i became, a little more.

a little more esther! a little more Esther.

a little more happy.

a little more courageous.

dat da da

( david once told me he thought sounds were more meaningful than words ) (or perhaps that sometimes he can't find the words )

i often can't find the words

and - i keep thinking about this shirt, these words

scho good

...my happy laughter

thoughts on literature. life.

"You live like this, sheltered, in a delicate world, and you believe you are living. Then you read a book… or you take a trip… and you discover that you are not living, that you are hibernating. The symptoms of hibernating are easily detectable: first, restlessness. The second symptom (when hibernating becomes dangerous and might degenerate into death): absence of pleasure. That is all. It appears like an innocuous illness. Monotony, boredom, death. Millions live like this (or die like this) without knowing it. They work in offices. They drive a car. They picnic with their families. They raise children. And then some shock treatment takes place, a person, a book, a song, and it awakens them and saves them from death. Some never awaken."

"I would like to have your sureness. I am waiting for love, the core of a woman's life."
Don't wait for it," I said. "Create a world, your world. Alone. Stand alone. And then love will come to you, then it comes to you. It was only when I wrote my first book that the world I wanted to live in opened to me."

"The other night we talked about literature's elimination of the unessential, so that we are given a concentrated "dose" of life. I said, almost indignantly, "That's the danger of it, it prepares you to live, but at the same time, it exposes you to disappointments because it gives a heightened concept of living, it leaves out the dull or stagnant moments. You, in your books, also have a heightened rhythm, and a sequence of events so packed with excitement that I expected all your life to be delirious, intoxicated."
Literature is an exaggeration, a dramatization, and those who are nourished on it (as I was) are in great danger of trying to approximate an impossible rhythm. Trying to live up to Dostoevskian scenes every day. And between writers there is a straining after extravagance. We incite each other to jazz-up our rhythm."

— Anaïs Nin (The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 1)