Monday, 23 July 2012

Advice to self.

Turn out the lights that you think keep your soul alight. Turn off your browser. Write wittingly and unwillingly until something flows. Don't stop to edit that word. Don't stop to think that maybe the cicadas sounded more like drunk sailors walking down the main street of Jackson.

Whatever.

You know what they're trying to tell you, if only you write long enough and say the words like a dozen broken housewives throwing the flour against the wall. Do you see the way that it bursts like the picture of a galaxy spattered on a ceiling in the bedroom of an eighteen-year-old virgin?

Ah, the eighteen-year-old virgin. I feel your gasp in and out, because I have been that girl. I have been the girl who thought her legs would never part like the Red Sea, like the factory crowds (Oh, Edie!).

Well, hell, what do we know? It turns out the eighteen year olds know nothing and there will be a million more lovers who swoop and swamp and swear and switch your heart from calcified rock to carbon, to diamonds, to rhinestone.

Sometimes the world is a waiting game and sometimes you just need to calculate the angle at which to arch your back when you are standing on the diving block and cocking your ear to the starter's whistle.

Listen.

That is all the advice I have left.

Or don't, don't wait for the world to say it's time. Leap, you lithe and wondrous motherfucker. Feel the water explode around your body and for gods' sake don't stop paddling until you hit the dry beach.

Don’t stop until you’re face-first into the wall.

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