I want to share some recent writing with you—an excerpt that I plan to put in my book of essays. But first, some random thoughts & observations & questions:
I’m thinking about the thrill of the unfinished, the allure of process, the seductive nature of something you can’t fully grasp. I once heard desire described as that which we can never fully touch, something we pine for. How can desire exist without pining, without actively seeking? Exist while sitting back in a chair, completely settled in self, happily wading in the pool of our own singular experience?
I love when words surprise me, when they jump from their usual context, venture outside of their allocated spaces. I read “a landscape dolloped with patches of sunny orange” and imagine some giant in the sky squeezing whipped sunlight out of a pastry bag, dolloping swirly shapes onto the land. My mind has expanded, my imagination has distorted itself into a delightful place.
I write in the garden. I watch a bird dry itself off, listen to the purr of its flapping wings. Then, the coquettish call of another bird in a neighboring tree. There is endless awe out here. A cardinal warbles for a while…to a friend? A mate? There is something so achingly resonant about its search. I feel like we share the same primary desire.
From milk fed: is the pursuit of intellectual intimacy ever truly about the other person, or is it about how we see ourselves in their gaze? do we desire to know, or do we desire to be known?
from one of my essays! Working title: Cherry Pie Crumble—
The day we ended things, we sat out in my garden, obscured by budding rose bushes and lemon trees. We both kicked off our shoes and tried to get comfortable in the wrought iron chairs. I instinctively did what I am not used to–I turned my body away from his and slung my legs over one of the arm rests. He eventually reached out to me, extending one leg towards my chair and I turned around, clamping my shins around his. Even then, when we knew this was taking a turn, we couldn’t help but touch each other. Each time we saw each other, it was always that moment we first touched that made us settle, that marked our arrival.
I set down our offerings in the grassy patch between us: lemon ginger water, iced coffee, a bowl of fruit, the two hardboiled eggs he brought over in a stout take-out container. Our thighs were pockmarked by sunlight, little dollops of heat that were welcomed and not yet bemoaned since it was only the end of May.
He launched into a whole thing about caddisfly larvae, about how they spit waterproof tape out of their mouths, securing twigs and small stones and other debris to their bodies to create a protective casing. I looked up a photo and marveled at the perfectly constructed mosaic of tiny colorful stones on the insect. As he kept telling me about them, I felt a wave of relief wash over me. Being unhooked from romance—from all the racking questions and what if’s that come with the prospect—allowed a veil to drop.
I felt like I could more lucidly appreciate him, appreciate what was right in front of me. It felt like, for at least a moment, we were at the very beginning, on the precipice of a growing connection. That I was at the threshold of his bedroom the first time I came over, marveling at the plastic tubs brimming with stubby crayons, the racket of wires along the wall. That moment when I felt nothing but open curiosity for his wacky, brilliant brain.
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Love this start!! 🩷