When you're writing a thesis, it's the pruning that gets you. When all the words have been writ,
and an innocuous sentence floating on a single line of chapter 3
makes you feel like you should recompose the whole damn thing.
So you uproot it, rework it. Sow(more) in some new seeds. Trim the excesses .
With 36 hours to go, you don't have much choice. Just many nights' sleep worth catching up, and not enough experience to not make the mistakes you think you're making.
Really, it's the editing that reminds you how green you still are.(less)
There’s nothing quite like having coffee outdoors on an early summer morning, is there? The sun begins to scorch the dew from the leaves, and, oh, the smell of flowers and fresh grass! I’m no romantic, but my, if the landscaping doesn’t get me in the mood to whip(more) out oil paints and canvas, or start meditating on Nirvana.
The perfect paradise is out there, and I’ve found a piece of it today. Just outside the big city, who would have thought that there would be beautiful forests, endless fields of wheat and barley, lakes and meadows, without another human in sight? Picking up the coffee on the way was a spur-of-the-moment thing, but nonetheless a great idea. I must do this more often.
And, oh God, the birds! They wake up in the bushes and trees around me and sing their felicitations to the rising sun. I lean against the side of my van, bathing in the sun and the crisp morning breeze. I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed breathing so much as I do now. It’s... purifying, in the greatest sense of the word. I let the shovel fall from my hand into the high grass.
empty drawers, space in the bookshelf, walls that are covered in paint and nothing else, a heavy lump of a bag hunched in the corner, saying pick up, go, move already.
before the things spread across the surfaces of things, little pieces of life and trash, things onc(more)e crumpled into balls in the bottom of pockets, rubbing up against lint and hair pieces (everyone sheds, everything sheds). things kept not for a purpose or a meaning, but because things need a place to go at the end of the night, and eventually even purses get dumped out, gazed into like pen-stained caves--what was said, what does it mean--gazed into because what's that smell, because why is this bag so heavy, because time sits heavy on the shoulder, people put things into hands and the hands put the things into the bag.
everything is emptied out onto the surfaces to be examined, judged. stay or go or go to purgatory for further judgement.
this room was never a part from the city. the bus signed into the window, the people who gathered outside, my strange bedfellows, never far enough away, seeping into dreams. yellow crusted blue earplugs roll on the floor, my barrier from the city, a magnet for cat hair and dust.
i came here two years ago to try it out--to remember being a punk in the city in my first kiss-in at my first big protest right out of high school, to remember that the city is a canvass, that there are deep wells of life right here, right now, and i can join this thing. i can be bigger, better.
the bags pile up, the piles of piles are marrying and shrinking. i am moving to a place too quiet for earplugs, too small for anonymity.(less)
Her heart was overcome with relief. The police were nice enough to leave her garden untouched after their invasion.
She notices fresh rows of radishes and carrots that have begun sprouting up. New life reaching up through the dirt like little hands stretching up out of their graves.(more) Heaven is just out of reach.
She asks "I wonder how those tomatoes will turn out?" Her question is answered by a breezy whisper of the summer evening. She wipes the beads of sweat off her face with her dirty sleeve and heads back inside. (less)