The sunset sky with dusky violet swirls of candy-heart love and blunt, orange brushstrokes of miss-you-more-than-summer lifted her up, up and away— the parachuted girl who should have come down far earlier than she did.
Looking up from the sidewalk, he waited while tapping one sensibly shoed foot, with its earth-hold-me-down steel-toed boots, and pushing his black wire glasses up, up the bridge of his nose.
Hours passed between them and a whole lot of days too but he was there to catch her fall, gathering her down into his arms as men in love are liable to do.
He and she, both foreheads together bent over that picture book like there were dusty, cobwebbed prophesies spun from one scripted edge to the next, and she had two sets of keys and a thing for sevens like Joshua or the days of the week and he had a makeshift will of too many days without sleep and the eyes to make connections between river valleys and ancient Aramaic— or Latin at least— the quo veritas question as old as blue skies and green leaves.
I just want to live quietly and make quiet wishes. But when I sleep and when I dream, you visit and bring electric guitars and beat poetry, sunshine daisy dandelions and passionate kisses. You bastard.
“Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won’t either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up. And when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself you tasted as many as you could.”—Louise Erdrich, The Painted Drum (via bookmania)
I wish I was a thousand miles away— a hundred thousand miles away— wrapped up in an afghan on an eastward facing porch step, sun warm on my face, breeze mild in my honey-colored hair, black coffee in my hands steaming, birds singing, grass swaying and you sitting on the step beside me, elbows on your knees, chin in your hands, your lips smirking because we ran away and got away with it.
She was a bright girl. Knew too much about too many things, but not enough to get noticed by anyone who really mattered. Maybe that was the problem. Then again, maybe there was no problem at all.
She loved him. It was inexplicable and mostly platonic, though he would have slept with her given the chance. She was pretty and men are usually willing. And she had moments of weakness and imagined many things that would never come true. Because he didn’t love her back.
Another man did, ardently. But nothing came of it. As is the case in most of these convoluted tales, it comes back to that circular nursery rhyme about the milkmaid who loved the baker who loved the seamstress who loved the sailor and so on until some moral blooms out of it, simplistic and a little fuzzy in translation. Like wild aster masquerading as cultured daisies.
As requested by too many people: making the last post rebloggable
birdartpoetry asked: Mister Gaiman, you’re kickass. I was just wondering, what do you think is the best way to seduce a writer? I figured your answer would be pretty spectacular.
In my experience, writers tend to be really good at the inside of their own heads and imaginary people, and a lot less good at the stuff going on outside, which means that quite often if you flirt with us we will completely fail to notice, leaving everybody involved slightly uncomfortable and more than slightly unlaid.
So I would suggest that any attempted seduction of a writer would probably go a great deal easier for all parties if you sent them a cheerful note saying “YOU ARE INVITED TO A SEDUCTION: Please come to dinner on Friday Night. Wear the kind of clothes you would like to be seduced in.”
And alcohol may help, too. Or kissing. Many writers figure out that they’re being seduced or flirted with if someone is actually kissing them.