Saying that anyone has grit is a blasphemy to all that's come before it.
Moments and spaces in time are disjointed, random, nonlinear. To have grit is to say you can handle it, that you can put forth with the sordid memories, the deep regrets, the quiet moments(more), all to disregard their flow. A reminder here, a tangible moment-- a touch of the skin, the lips on your neck, tangled up in strings beyond your knowing. A tapestry of red wire cut in the middle where the gaps are found.
She throws her head back in ecstasy, my face buried in her neck. I'm outside her door, hesitating to knock for the sorrow the lies within. Where do they connect? What parts am I missing? Where does the plot follow? Where's the common thread?
Can you bear it when you walk away? The hallways echo. Can you hear her voice?
I don't knows prefaced with quiet smiles. The tilt of her head. The wideness of her eyes.
Not here again. No hot toddies and plates of fries. A diner booth tucked in the corner. Her elbows on the tale.
Flash in the dark. Unstuck again. She cries into my shoulder silently, thinking I don't notice.
Daniel Day-Lewis on the screen. Poisoned mushrooms her and I.
There's a highway ahead. It forks toward the Tetons and toward Idaho. You know where each lead, but which is the preference? Equitable in their own rights.
I try to think in McCarthy tones. Long descriptors that flourish in their completion. Yet they elude me. There's no beauty in this world in its turning as to that of the human memories. Furnished for comfort, but never to please.(less)