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Every mouth you’ve ever kissed was just practice.
All the bodies you’ve ever undressed and ploughed into
were preparing you for me.
I don’t mind tasting them in the memory of your mouth.
Was it a long journey? Did it take you long to find me?
You’re here now, welcome home.
Warsan Shire
Loving someone is easy. It’s your car and all you have to do is start the engine, give her a little gas and point the thing wherever you want to go. But being loved is like being taken for a ride in someone else’s car. Even if you think they’ll be a good driver, you always have the innate fear they might do something wrong: in an instant you’ll both be flying through the windshield toward imminent disaster. Being loved can be the most frightening thing of all. Because love means good-bye to control; and what happens if halfway or three-quarters of the way through the trip you decide you want to go back, or in a different direction, and you’re only the co-driver?
Jonathan Carroll
(from Bones of the Moon)
All the conscious lies and forgotten promises we breed, the cruel gestures, small and large. The lack of gratitude and unwillingness to share, the kindnesses not repaid, the slights returned. The selfishness, the chosen ignorance, the pointless thefts, the fuck-you-I-come-first attitude that taints so much of life. All of them are bed bugs *we* create. Growing up, we’re taught to accept them as a given. Age-old. Been around forever. They’re part of life. But they aren’t because in most cases when we stop and think, we’re instantly aware of how to avoid producing more of these revolting bugs and their shit.
Jonathan Carroll
(from The Marriage of the Sticks)

Do you know the joke about the man who goes to get a new suit made? The tailor measures him and says come back in two weeks. The guy returns and puts on the suit. It looks terrible. The left cuff comes down five inches too long, the lapels are completely uneven, the crotch hangs like harem pants…
It’s the worst suit in the world; ridiculous looking. The guy complains but the tailor says he’s *seeing* it all wrong: ‘What you’ve got to do is pull up the left sleeve and hold it there with your chin. Then ooch your right shoulder up five inches so the lapels are even. Next, put your right hand in the pocket of the pants and pull up the crotch…’ You get the idea.

So the man follows all the tailor’s insane instructions and ends up contorted like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. But when he glances in the mirror again the suit fits him wonderfully. The tailor says triumphantly, That’s the new style these days.’
So the idiot buys the suit and walks out of the store wearing it.
Staggering down the street like Quasimodo, he passes two men. They turn around and watch him limp away.
The first guy says, ‘I feel so sorry for the handicapped.’
The other says, ‘Yeah, but what a fabulous suit!’

That is the best metaphor I’ve ever heard for how we try to make bad relationships work. Or what we do to ourselves to make anything important work, even when it’s obvious it’s wrong or not meant to be.

Jonathan Carroll
(from The Marriage of the Sticks)
Long after, he remembered the number of the room, the smell of her skin lotion, the shape of the small purple bruise on her arm, how carefully she prepared her tea, the music that was playing in the background…It is greatest compliment you can pay to a person, even if you are not able to tell them: when you remember everything down to the finest detail about a day, an afternoon… hours when everything large and small in your life glows because they are in them.
Jonathan Carroll
You can’t ‘face your fear’ as is so often lamely suggested by pundits and gurus. Because fear doesn’t have a face, anymore than it does a telephone number. The only thing you *can* do with fear when it insists on coming along for this or that part of your ride, is to try and keep it in the backseat and never *ever* let it take the wheel.
Jonathan Carroll
‘Explore me’ you said and I collected my ropes, flasks and maps, expecting to be back home soon. I dropped into the mass of you and I cannot find the way out. Sometimes I think I’m free, coughed up like Jonah from the whale, but then I turn a corner and recognize myself again. Myself in your skin, myself lodged in your bones, myself floating in the cavities that decorate every surgeon’s wall. That is how I know you. You are what I know.
Jeanette Winterson

Found this poor soggy little worker bee in a puddle on my balcony.
Scooped him up & let him dry out a bit on my finger before putting him on a cyclamen flower to dry out the rest of the way.

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