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If you listen, I’ll tell you a story. We can know and be known to each other, and then we’re not enemies anymore.
The blood pooled and flowed toward the drain. A red river. Oklahoma also has a Red River. It is not red. In some places, it’s not even a river.
Calvin and Hobbes. He is a boy who seems to hate the world as it is and love the world that ought to be.
what a horrible world that makes a weapon out of love.
Maybe there’s a lot more to it—maybe you choose and you practice, and that’s what makes the love true.
Does writing poetry make you brave? It is a good question to ask. I think making anything is a brave thing to do. Not like fighting brave, obviously. But a kind that looks at a horrible situation and doesn’t crumble. Making anything assumes there’s a world worth making it for. That you’ll have someplace, like a clown’s pants, to hide it when people come to take it away. I guess I’m saying making something is a hopeful thing to do.
I looked up. The hail felt like nails. It didn’t matter. I opened my mouth. Ray said something I don’t know what. I was busy eating the tornado.
The point of the Nights is that if you spend time with each other—if we really listen in the parlors of our minds and look at each other as we were meant to be seen—then we would fall in love. We would marvel at how beautifully we were made. We would never think to be villain kings, and we would never kill each other. Just the opposite. The stories aren’t the thing. The thing is the story of the story. The spending of the time. The falling in love.
THE LEGEND OF MY MOTHER is that she does not stop. And if you don’t stop, you’re unstoppable.
