I’m a terrible writer. The more I read about the processes of other essayists the more I realize I’m not cut out for it: I don’t have the memory and I don’t like to lie. I can’t remember the details well enough to tell even the stories that mean the most to me.
What was it that you said when we were sitting in front of Luncheon of the Boating Party? And I said “Who would go to Georgetown?” and you said “Touché,” which is one of the best-suited words for you. I can’t remember what you said, and I hate it when people forget the joke and remember the punch line. And we laughed because you hate Georgetown and I hate the dog woman, and neither of us really wants to believe that beautiful things are so rotten inside.
There’s not enough time, for Man Ray and African art, for you to be sullen or me to be withholding and not sit back down on the couch. There’s not enough time to wait another 3 years or another decade, but there’s not enough time to worry about it, either. The future is so bright! We could die tomorrow! We’re so free!
On the plane I’m sitting here trying not to crash, but all I can think about is how you said flying’s a miracle. I didn’t expect you to believe in miracles; I don’t, but when the plane shakes, I close my eyes like I do when you kiss me, and I’m not afraid.
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2 comments:
Cara,
I spent tonight eating my Indian leftovers and reading your blog. I never had before, and don't know why. It is delightful; you're a PRO; I'm so happy for you/jealous. It's so good that I think it's going to work itself into my morning routine, right beside the nerdy sabermetric blogs and sites I read with my cereal. Bravo, and see you tomorrow.
Wow, Cara. I read that multiple times. You are incredible.
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