A collection of thoughts after re-reading Too Much and Not the Mood (transcribed from marginalia):
Writing is a return.
The luxury of small moments at home.
Sumptuous perfumed moments of language.
Prose over plot. Always.
Yet, there’s sisterhood to be found in friendship.
A certain kind of love for my friends: awe and obsession and comfort.
We read our tarot cards for kicks/to see patterns in our lives/to reflect.
Colours as houses you live in for certain moments in your life.
How something so familiar can warp and change in the early light. The dawn plays tricks on us.
I am undeniably an extrovert, but identify with the trope of the ‘nook person’ – so a strange hybrid, in/extrovert? Undefinable?
The longing for aesthetics.
Reading ‘Heart Museum’ was like listening to a piece of music: there’s so much going on and I suddenly realise the focus has changed, but I can’t figure out how or when it changed – I only know that she is taking me from moment to moment in a seamless by chaotic way, and despite my inability to make sense of each transition, it makes sense as a whole, complete piece.
And ‘Idea of Marriage’, barely a page of an essay is in perfect balance with ‘Heart Hotel’ and its meandering stream of consciousness.
A whisper in a quiet room is heard like a shout.
The magic of reading and noticing little echoes of the words in my life – fragments of the book suddenly seem to fit into my life where they didn’t before.
Do stories only find meaning in the telling?
I am always hyper aware of the sun through the course of the day. I know where it will rise, and I know where it will set. I know exactly where to sit so it will slide over me warming and bright.
PURPLE! Melodrama and the moment just after sunset. The Violet Hour. Highlighters, witches, auras, lupins, and the haze of oil on a wet road – slick with magic.