29 12 / 2012
"Wind whipped the tips of our ears and stole a plastic bag right out of Manny’s hand. He thought it was a sign and fished through our supplies until he pulled out a tight, fat roll of twine and three black plastic bags. We made kits: trash bags on strings. We ran, slipped, the knees of our dungarees all grass stained, we got up, ran, choked ourselves half to death with laughter, but we found speed, and our trash kits soared. We flew for an hour or so, until daylight fully buried itself into night and all the light sank back, except for the stars and toenail clipping of moon, and the kites disappeared, black on blackness. That’s when we let go, and our trash kites really soared —up and away, heavenward, like prayers, our hearts chasing after."
03 7 / 2012
You change from book to book. You begin always knowing nothing. You remain forever an amateur, a first-timer. Sure, you might cobble together something akin to a methodology after a while, a working method, a sense of pacing yourself through the seasons. But that’s about it in terms of the pleasures and wisdom of the veteran.
What makes this worst thing also the best thing has to do with the agelessness of aspiration. When you’re always starting out, always trying to learn to do what you don’t know how to do, you remain close to the place (college dorm room, Prague café) where you first set pen to paper. You remain in touch with that crazy, dreamy kid who spent so much time in the library. You persist in being impractical, idealistic, naive, and brave. Your body ages, but your imagination remains young, and on your deathbed, if you’re lucky, you might be prideful enough to say to yourself, “I’m finally getting the hang of this.”"