The Angle of Repose

Feelings are just visitors, let them come and go.

Dipping our bread in oil tins we talked of morning peeling open our rooms to a moment of almonds, olives and wind when we did not yet know what the days in Mallorca were alike: footprints down goat-paths from the beds we had left, at night the stars locked to darkness. At that time we were learning to dance, take our clothes in our fingeres and open ourselves to their hands. The veranera was with us. For a month the almond trees bloomed, their droppings the delicate silks we removed when each time a touch took us closer to the window where we whispered yes, there on the intricate balconies of breath, overlooking the rest of our lives.

What is now mythology, was once explanation.

I’m so scared of dying without ever being really seen. Can you understand?

On one hand you’re trying to be a witness, but on the other you’re trying to make sense of the world for yourself. So a lot of times when I sit down to write, it’s because I’m confounded or angry. I don’t write that much when I’m happy. I don’t write that much when things are going well. I’m out being happy somewhere, you know? But when I need to get on the other side of something, my first refuge is the page.