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“Then I grew
into my ugly,
said plenty,
dropping quarters
at the coin laundry.
The sound of water
turning over water
was a comfort,
the sound of someone
else's things.”
―
into my ugly,
said plenty,
dropping quarters
at the coin laundry.
The sound of water
turning over water
was a comfort,
the sound of someone
else's things.”
―
“Is this what I am learning, how not to be sad at the noise of time, letting the marvel of the full moments disappear under the tide that bears me forward? Perhaps what I want is to be inside the clock, seeing its workings so intimately that they seem to slow — as Meg Murry, in Madeleine L’Engle’s The Wind in the Door, discovers that in microscopically scaled mitochondrial time, a human heartbeats happens only once every decade. When I pay attention so closely, I enter a flow state in which time passes, yes, but is not lost — it feels full, filled. It is not photography that can do this. It is writing, to which I am returning, even as I work through these thoughts on paper.”
―
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