Who would have thought the bees would have been the first alien force to invade America?
I spent a lot of time waiting for things to happen to me, which is more or less as pathetic as it sounds.
I never asked my mother where babies came from but I remember clearly the day she volunteered the information. . . . my mother called me to set the table for dinner. She sat me down in the kitchen, and under the classic caveat of 'loving each other very, very much,' explained that when a man and a woman hug tightly, the man plants a seed in the woman. The seed grows into a baby. Then she sent me to the pantry to get placemats. As a direct result of this conversation, I wouldn't hug my father for two months.
If you have to ask someone to change, to tell you they love you, to bring wine to dinner, to call you when they land, you can't afford to be with them.
There are two kinds of people in this world: those who know where their high school yearbook is and those who do not.
I was surprised by how much I loved Portland. It is so wonderfully creative without being artsy. Great food scene.
Our brains are like bonsai trees, growing around our private versions of reality.
. . . A CLOCKWORK ORANGE- and I said: 'That's a fair gloopy title. Who ever heard of a clockwork orange?' Then I read a malenky bit out loud in a sort of very high type preaching goloss: '- The attempt to impose upon a man, a creature of growth and capable of sweetness, to ooze juicily at the last round the bearded lips of God, to attempt to impose, I say, laws and conditions appropriate to a mechanical creation, against this I raise my swordpen-
I take a whole life story and compress it into three minutes.
It is by becoming increasingly complex that the self might be said to grow.
How do we remember to remember? That's a question I've asked myself often since my time on Duma Key, often in the small hours of the morning, looking up into the absence of light, remembering absent friends. Sometimes in those little hours I think about the horizon. You have to establish the horizon. You have to mark the white. A simple enough act, you might say, but any act that re-makes the world is heroic. Or so I've come to believe.