I wasn't tired this week until midweek when I remembered daylight savings time had kicked in. Then suddenly I was very tired and I've been walking around feeling like I'm always losing an hour.
Reading: "True Grit" by Charles Portis. Just saw the new movie and spent the last 20 minutes curled in an armchair, all alone in the children's section of the second-run theater, sobbing into my paper popcorn container. A beautiful movie and it hit something I had only just started thinking about that same day: telling stories and telling what is real. Not "realism" necessarily. But getting to the bottom and the truth. I love the "True Grit" dialogue, the lack of contractions, the abides and credences, a sort of windiness, like a wide landscape and you have reached the hill with it all laid out below you. I read the book a long time ago. Second time is better.
"In Our Time" by Ernest Hemingway. Love/hate him. Read some story about an American woman in a foreign nation state desiring a cat. Husband reading a book. Detail of two pillows. Adjectives shot on sight.
Listening: "Sigh No More" Mumford and Sons. Over and over and over and over. They seem trustworthy.
I wrote a story that took me four days to write and in the end it was only an OK story. It wasn't good. But the day I wrote it, I had this lyric running through my head:
There will come a time you'll see
with no more tears
and love will not break your heart
I don't know if it helped or hindered me or both. Either way, it made me sad to think about love and all the forms it takes and what it does or doesn't do and people are raised by wolves half the time, or eaten by them. Here's the story. They put the wrong photo of her in.
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On a lighter note: HUMAN FOOT? In a DUMP?! Maybe...
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