Nothing matters but the memories; I have nothing but the memories.
Time has no form.
To believe in something like van Gogh believed in God.
A character in Virginia Woolf's The Voyage Out wanted to write a book about silence. I want to write a book about the trees swaying in the wind.
I want to write like Marguerite Duras.
I'm a writer, but reading is my true love. Reading saves me.
Where is my father? What is he? Why can't he be alive?
My parents were my first love, my only love.
I can't be healed. I can't be saved.
I am failing.
The scene in Antichrist when Charlotte Gainsbourg dissolves into the grass--I long for that. I long for erasure.
I can't love. I can't be loved.
Crying in the car, telling my mother "It's done. His death can't be changed." She says "All you can do is cry."
This is not surviving.
In an email, a friend wrote that she and I "resist loss." It's true. I resist his death. I refuse to move on. It's like his death fills the hole he left--my obsession with him, this aching is what I hold on to because I can't hold him. It is destroying me. I am destroying myself.
Life spares no one.
In my writing, I want to express emotion and feeling; these things are, by nature, abstract, intangible, and unsayable. I want a language that is impossible, that does not exist.
I want few words. I want no words. I want the pen to be a blade, parring down language.
A blade of dying sunlight cuts through the trees.
How will we make this society just? Protests are an attempt at collective speech, a demand to be heard.
Clouds overspilling the sky.
The moon: a crack in the sky, the ooze of silver light, the underside of heaven.
I get more tender as I get older.
I can't go "back" and I can't go "forward." These spatial metaphors are useless. I am here in this moment and I am burning.
These memories burn away the skin of the present.
Life takes the life out of me.