Julie G > Recent Status Updates

There was nothing like a buckle for lending a bit of dignity to a hat.

No one leaves home unless home is the mouth of the shark. . .

No one would leave home unless home chased you. . .

No one puts their children in a boat, unless the water is safer than the land.

Everything you did to me,
I remember.

Mama, I made it
out of your home
alive, raised by
the voices
in my head.

Can you begin to own
both yourself and your shadow?
Can you measure
moments in the sun
when your shadow lays down your shape?
Does your shadow speak to you
or it it you telling your shadow
what to be telling you?
Can a man listen to his shadow
hoping it tells him where to go,
what to do when he gets there?
Has ever been a man praying,
"Make me into a thin
goblet of glass, oh Lord,
I fear what my shadow tells me?"

Disaster was the spice of life to Ellen, and she was always the first to say "I told you so."

A little way beyond the battle-field they made their camp under a spreading tree: it looked like a chestnut, and yet it still bore many broad brown leaves of a former year, like dry hands with long splayed fingers; they rattled mournfully in the night-breeze.

When water turns ice does it remember
one time it was water?
When ice turns back into water does it
remember it was ice?

Love is a day with night at the end.

What is there for us two
to split fifty-fifty,
to go halvers on?
A Bible, a deck of cards?
a farm, a frying pan?
a porch, front steps to sit on?
How can we be pals
when you speak English
and I speak English
and you never understand me
and I never understand you?

Speak to the branches of spring
and the surprise of blossoms:
they too hope for a good year.

Love and involvement brought joy, but as well could become a hideously heavy millstone slung about one's neck.

Confession was not a penance but a self-indulgence. It was unloading your so-called sin onto another person, and thus shedding guilt.

She did not approve but her own opinions were best kept to herself.

"Memory is not what the heart desires."

Violet looked about her. Saw the worn Turkey rug, the old bits of furniture that she had known all her life. It was pleasant when things did not change too much.

To compare old wounds is as fruitless as comparing whether it is worse to be blind or to be deaf, to lose an arm or lose a leg. Regardless, something is missing, and adjustments must be made.

Is being an innocent victim as fulfilling as being a survivor, or is that sense of power you get from holding a grudge as satisfying as having the power to make your own choices?

"Indeed in nothing is the power of the Dark Lord more clearly shown than in the estrangement that divides all those who still oppose him."

At this point the coast seemed to fling itself out into a jagged headland, composed of great granite outcrops. Between these the turf was smooth and very green, stained with patches of purple-belled heather, and the path wound down between these outcrops and as they followed its convolutions, a little cove, sheltered and enclosed, gradually revealed itself, far below.

There were headlights like fireflies, coming from all directions, converging on Penfolda. From the road the farmhouse could be seen to be blazing with light. They joined the queue of assorted vehicles which bumped and groaned their way down a narrow, broken land and eventually were directed into a farmyard which had been turned temporarily into a car park. The air was full of voices and laughter. . .

She had loved him all along but did not know how to express herself in any way other than complaining.

Christmas for him had always been like someone shining a great big spotlight down in that dark empty space inside him, and the only way he had been able to handle it in the past was to get drunk.

He could not have caused more trouble if he had been a fox sneaking into a chicken coop, setting up a panic-stricken cackling and causing feathers to fly.

"When heads are at a loss, bodies must serve. . . The strongest of us must seek a way."

"You do not yet know the strength of your hearts, and you cannot foresee what each may meet upon the road."

No dawn was quite the same as another, and the filling of the sky with light had always seemed a miracle.

In this enormous, empty, airy world, she saw herself tiny as an ant, reduced to total unimportance by the sweep and size of nature. A nonentity. She rather liked the feeling of being without identity, of knowing that nobody knew exactly where she was, and that if she met somebody, they wouldn't know who she was. So, she belonged to nobody but herself.

She says there is a beach, and the North Sea.

So different were the sisters, so little did they have in common, it seemed that each belonged solely to a single parent.

She sat on her tightly upholstered loveseat while her little pug dog, Miles, stood on his tiny feet and shook in a frenzy of need, yapping his small mouth, his eyes bulging.