It’s too damn hot.

It is hot— the new year has brought with it thick, oppressive air and sullen heat. Not that she likes the rain, but he’s starting to wish for it anyway. Anything to break this heatwave. Anything just to change this mood.Sweat glides down the groove of his spine. It’s really just too damn hot.

“It’s too hot,” she huffs, irritable, tired, but not quite pushing him away. And maybe she’s right. Their backs and necks are clammy hot with sweat; the salt of their skin tinges the air, unmistakeably, with that scent that he loves so much, that scent that is uniquely them. It is hot, maybe too hot for this, but he knows that isn’t what she means.

He’s exhausted to the point of shattering, in need of sleep that never comes; being here makes her toss and turn with nightmares that he doesn’t understand. She’s constantly on edge, waiting, anticipating, wary of those thoughts that haunt him, head always turned to keep watch over her shoulder.

But she’s not alone now anymore, and the risks she takes are his risks too. So, she runs though she hates it, through fucking suburbia that’s blistering hot like hell.

And when they run it’s like a fever breaking. Less oppression, more tension.

Work 12hr days in the den of consumerism. Run along the river. Not!sleep. Rinse. Repeat. #canitbethe25thalreadyplease

Worried I’m not going to get paid before Christmas. So much broke, and so much shopping to do. #stress

There’s too much time inside for all my years.

Eating cookies at 3am instead of closing our eyes. It’s what we do.

Why is the wine always gone?

Keep Making Art,

and when you get tired; eat,

and/ or watch movies, every kind

make tea and then Keep Making Art.

That Will Keep You From Becoming

“THEM”

- You Know-

those people

who could, but don’t

She sat on the floor
and sorted our a heap of letters:
she took them up like handfuls of dead cold ashes 
and let them drop.

She took those familiar pages
and passing strange was the way she looked at them:
so spirits look from above
at the bodies they have shed.

And what life was contained there,
life gone for ever,
and how much grief lingered,
how much gladness and love that had been killed.

In silence I stood apart
and was ready to fall on my knees
full of awe and sadness,
as if I were in the presence of some dear ghost.
Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchev, trans. Vladimir Nabokov

I don’t care that you can sing in four-part harmony. If you don’t learn more than four songs, you can’t stand outside my store all day.

Hi there, shiny new Mac. You can stay.

New car! It’s blue. And goes. And has aircon. That’s all that’s really important.

Owie.

Pasta = comfort food.

Chilli, hugs, a massage and meta. #wearewin

Like the fur of a chinchilla. Like the cleanest tooth. Yes, the fishes say, this is what it feels like. People always ask the fishes, ‘What does the water feel like to you?’ and the fishes are always happy to oblige. Like feathers are to other feathers, they say. Like powder touching ash. We smile and nod. When the fishes tell us these things, we begin to understand. We begin to think we know what the water feels like to the fishes. But it’s not always like fur and ash and the cleanest tooth. At night, they say, the water can be different. At night, when it’s very cold, it can be like the tongue of a cat. At night, when it’s very very cold, it’s like cracked glass. Or honey. Or forgiveness, they say, ha ha. When the fishes answer these questions - which they are happy to do - they also ask why. They are curious things, fish are, and thus they ask, ‘Why? Why do you want to know what the water feels like to the fishes?’ And we are never quite sure. The fishes press further. ‘Do you breathe air?’ they ask. The answer is yes. Well then, they say, ‘What does the air feel like to you?’ And we do not know. We think of air and we think of wind, but that’s another thing. Wind is air in action, air on the move, and the fishes know this. Well then, they ask again, ‘What does the air feel like?’ And we have to think about this. Air feels like air, we say, and the fishes laugh mirthlessly. ‘Think!’ they say. ‘Think,’ they say, now gentler. And we think and we guess that air feels like hair, thousands of hairs, swaying ever so slightly in breezes microscopic. The fishes laugh again. ‘Do better, think harder,’ they say, encouraging us. It feels like language, we say, and they are impressed. ‘Keep going,’ they say. It feels like blood, we say, and they say, ‘No, no, now you’re getting colder.’ The air is like being wanted, we say, and they nod approvingly. The air is like being pushed and pulled and yanked, punched and slapped and misunderstood and loved, we say, and the fishes sigh and touch our forearm sympathetically.


~ What Water Feels Like To The Fishes by Dave Eggers