weekly ritual sentence writing. some of them, not the best or anything, just them:
The face of the house had been ripped off and there was the guy: sitting on the edge of his bed, looking out, surrounded by wallpaper poppies—and it dawned on him, in a slow, slow, dawn, that he was the one left to tell the story and he knew he was a lousy storyteller—always had been.
Bystander: Her thumb, near the machine, was, more than ever, like a machine, but her her thumb near the cat, was still nothing like a cat, and later that same day, at the contemporary art museum she’d been visiting for decades, sheets she recognized from childhood had been incorporated into a work of art.
What if the grown girl just starts to fix her mother’s house in secret because her mother is such a disaster and that’s why they can’t get along, that’s why the mother internet-stalked the grown girl for evidence of the girl being terrible (but I’m great on the internet!)—and what if she snuck into the basement and heard a noise like paper but authoratative, and closed her eyes to focus on the sound through the shadowy damp etcetera, and when she did it was flashback to the sound of the sprinkler from Ray Bradbury’s famous story about how the sprinklers keep going on after humanity is wiped out, so she opens her eyes and sees the black snake under the stairs—a wise territorial beast who keeps rattle-snakes off the property—but he’s still a huge fucking snake—and the sound of the paper—the literary sprinklers—it will never work.
To quote my sister: You can look up eggplant parmesan on tumblr and get a hundred topless selfies.
In the ancient margin, a man beat acorns off trees for his pig.
I made her promise that she wouldn’t stay in the relationship for the health insurance and she said she was sure that before long there’d be options.
From now on her brain image would be projected from her eyes like sunspots for quietly reading herself: I know what you’re doing, don’t move your lips.
Every so often I go outside as if that will solve my problems.
I got him to take me to the opera because I had free tickets for easy Carmen, the opera that hardly counts as opera—but afterwards, I wanted more from him, and my glasses—not opera glasses, real glasses—slipped between the door and the seat of my car—how is this possible—and yet—I slammed them—and yet he would not even agree to lend me his sofa for the night, so I balanced them, balanced them, across my nose, and dropped him off, and balanced them deep into the countryside where I lived in silence.
This morning, after I’d missed another eclipse, the light reminded me of Italy, where I lived for a while always testing experience against rumor—it was just that the light was so pretty, and without reason—the morning overlapping, leftover, happy, and sad.