Sunday, June 14, 2009

Breakfast at Tiffany's

"Never love a wild thing, Mr. Bell," Holly advised him. "That was Doc's mistake. He was always lugging home wild things. A hawk with a hurt wing. One time it was a full-grown bobcat with a broken leg. But you can't give your heart to a wild thing: the more you do, the stronger they get. Until they're strong enough to run into the woods. Or fly into a tree. Then a taller tree. Then the sky. That's how you'll end up, Mr. Bell. If you let yourself love a wild thing. You'll end up looking at the sky."

"She's drunk," Joe Bell informed me.

"Moderately," Holly confessed. "But Doc knew what I meant. I explained it to him very carefully and it was something he could understand. We shook hands and held on to each other and he wished me luck." She glanced at the clock. "He must be in the Blue Mountains by now."

"What's she talkin' about?" Joe Bell asked me.

Holly lifted her martini. "Let's wish the Doc luck, too," she said, touching her glass against mine. "Good luck: and believe me, dearest Doc -- it's better to look at the sky than live there. Such an empty place; so vague. Just a country where the thunder goes and things disappear."

Tuesday, June 9, 2009

The Diary of Adam and Eve

Perhaps I ought to remember that she is very young, a mere girl, and make allowances. She is all interest, eagerness, vivacity, the world is to her a charm, a wonder, a mystery, a joy. She can't speak for delight when she finds a new flower, she must pet it and caress it and talk to it and pour out endearing names upon it. And she is colour-mad: brown rocks, yellow sand, grey moss, green foliage, blue sky; the pearl of the dawn, the purple shadows on the mountains, the golden islands floating in crimson seas at sunset, the pallid moon sailing through the shredded cloud rack, the star jewels glittering in the wastes of space - none of them is of any practical value, so far as I can see, but because they have colour and majesty, that is enough for her, and she loses her mind over them.


The Diary of Adam and Eve - Mark Twain

Song #4

Song #4
by Howie Good

But on a morning
when my wife
so softly dented
stands naked
in front of the closet
still deciding
between the dark blue
and the black
I feel as the last calamitous
emperor of Rome
might’ve felt writing
with a red
can of shaving cream
love is
and without
quotation marks