she was the third beer.
i. not the first one,
which the throat receives with almost tearful gratitude;
ii. nor the second,
that confirms and extends the pleasure of the first.
iii. but the third,
the one you drink because it’s there,
because it can’t hurt,
what difference does it make?
|| new categories:
the sympathy of things
how to think by jumping
too far east is west
never wait for yourself
patterns of chaos
we all have a hunger
other groups of words arranged nicely that are not.
keep the rage tender
soft in fire
… too far west
it sounded old—
—now: it seemed to him that he-was-always-saying-or-thinking that he-didn’t-deserve-some-bad-luck-or-some-bad-treatment from others.
(he’d told Guitar that he didn’t-deserve-his-family’s
if you take a flat map
and move wooden blocks upon it strategically,
the thing looks well, the blocks behave as they should.
the science of war is moving live men like blocks.
and getting the blocks into place at a fixed moment.
but it takes time to mold your men into blocks
and flat maps turn into country where creeks and gullies
hamper your wooden squares.
they stick in the brush,
they are tired and rest, they straggle after ripe blackberries,
and you cannot lift them up in your hand [and] move them. … men into blocks
before they had kids, if asked to conjure images of parenthood they would have said things like
“reading in bed,”
“giving a bath,”
“running while holding the seat of a bicycle.”
// parenthood contains such moments of warmth and intimacy, but isn’t them.
it’s cleaning up. the great bulk of family life involves no exchange of love, and no meaning, only fulfillment.
not the fulfillment of feeling fulfilled,
but of fulfilling that which now falls to you.
:: jonathan safran foer
here i am