by Alfred Kreymborg

I sing the will to love:
the will that carves the will to live,
the will that saps the will to hurt,
the will that kills the will to die;
the will that made and keeps you warm,
the will that points your eyes ahead,
the will that makes you give, not get,
a give and get that tell us what you are:
how much a god, how much a human.

I call on you to live the will to love.



sunrise at the cliffside

"I get it!" I bellowed, as the waves swelled and gushed and crashed and the gaping sky was ripped pink red orange white and me blinded by the sun's rise.  I belted another yell into the sky and the sea.  "I know, I understand!"

And I did, for the next two hours of that brilliant morning.  I staggered about the slanted dry, sandy, rocky outcrop, somehow didn't fall off onto the craggy rocky teeth over 100 feet below.  I meandered around and sat down and watched the donkeys and baby goats come out and the goats climbed like agile insane monkeys down the cliff around and beneath me to eat purple and blue flowers and to flaunt their beautiful balance.  I sighed, wistful.  To have their sure-footing on the earth....

One of the donkeys sneaked behind me and blew a big huff in my ear.  A dangerous thing to do and I almost jumped off the edge of the stable slightly angled to the water surface I'd sat myself on.  Pockets of island cacti surrounded me, making secret wishes I'd drop a hand into their thorns.  They thought such happenings as cosmically funny.

But I collected myself, turned to the donkey and snorted loudly, which made the creature take a few steps backward.  

I turned back to the sea.  It's relentless crashing of waves had lessened in intensity as the sun turned everything into morning and day.  The blue of the water was beginning to sing as the light grew ever brighter.  Silver flew off the tops of the waves as they coiled over.

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one groove's difference and the universe can be on into a whole 'nother song

“What goes around may come around, but it never ends up exactly the same place, you ever notice? Like a record on a turntable, all it takes is one groove's difference and the universe can be on into a whole 'nother song.” 

― Thomas Pynchon, Inherent Vice


The History of Love

Once upon a time there was a boy. He lived in a village that no longer exists, in a house that no longer exists, on the edge of a field that no longer exists, where everything was discovered and everything was possible. A stick could be a sword. A pebble could be a diamond. A tree a castle.

Once upon a time there was a boy who lived in a house across the field from a girl who no longer exists. They made up a thousand games. She was Queen and he was King. In the autumn light, her hair shone like a crown. They collected the world in small handfuls. When the sky grew dark they parted with leaves in their hair.

Once upon a time there was a boy who loved a girl, and her laughter was a question he wanted to spend his whole life answering. When they were ten he asked her to marry him. When they were eleven he kissed her for the first time. When they were thirteen they got into a fight and for three weeks they didn’t talk. When they were fifteen she showed him the scar on her left breast. Their love was a secret they told no one. He promised her he would never love another girl as long as he lived.What if I die? she asked. Even then, he said. For her sixteenth birthday he gave her an English dictionary and together they learned the words. What’s this? he’d ask, tracing his index finger around her ankle, and she’d look it up. And this? he’d ask, kissing her elbow. Elbow! What kind of word is that? and then he’d lick it, making her giggle. What about this? he asked, touching the soft skin behind her ear. I don’t know, she said, turning off the flashlight and rolling over, with a sigh, onto her back. When they were seventeen they made love for the first time, on a bed of straw in a shed. Later—when things happened that they could never have imagined—she wrote him a letter that said: When will you learn that there isn’t a word for everything?

— Nicole Krauss, The History of Love