The crazy thing about the moon is
That everyone writes about the moon.
Pick any author from any genre, any point in history, and bam, the moon will be there, setting the stage with her soft glow, rising above a hush and still night, her distant shadows and craters appearing as shapes of gray and white.
Writing about the moon is, however, quite universal. What young child, adult, or grandparent hasn’t crept from their covers into the night, to silently gaze at the magnificent disc in the velvet sky, silently gazing back?
The moon is present for some of our best moments, and some of our worst. She takes her place every night, through the deepest nights, whether we are restless enough to see her, or peaceful enough to trust she is watching.
It can be a wonderful thing to walk out across the earth at an unknown hour, and behold something so vastly distant, so incomprehensibly beyond your reach, to yearn for a place you’ve never been among stars that have not yet been named.
It can be good to remain in awe.
So Hawaiian Pizza and Fudgsicles.
Also, I’ve been watching an absurd amount of amazing animated films which, for some ridiculous reason, I’ve never seen before. I’m talking Wreck It Ralph, Rise of the Guardians, and Epic. Also, How To Train Your Dragon has ALL the feels, and the Finding Nemo commentary is hilarious.
And lastly, almost done with the Order of the Phoenix, and halfway through another fantastic children’s tale, Wildwood.
Many leaves, one tree.
I’ve missed you. A few weeks ago I bought a Quarter Horse in Knoxville and ever since then I’ve been dreaming of mane and tail and grass and sweet horsey smell.
I am cat-sitting this week, so very much looking forward to some quiet to think and read and write.
Hope you all are well
When Leo Tolstoy wrote ‘Anna Karenina,’ he was drawing on a local real-life tragedy: a young woman, jilted by her lover, threw herself under a train in despair. But he also drew on something more personal: His married sister had an adulterous affair and an illegitimate child. She was abandoned by her lover, who left her to marry another woman. She grew desperate and suicidal and wrote anguished letters to her brother. Did Tolstoy have the right to tell her story? He changed it to suit his literary needs, and used her desperation for his own purposes. But what were those purposes?
I don’t think Tolstoy was exploiting his sister, quite the reverse. I think he was voicing his own pain and desperation. He was driven, not by a narcissistic urge for literary gain, but by deep empathy for his sister. His response was not, “I can use this,” but “I can’t bear this.” Writing was a way to relieve his own pain. This was a deeply compassionate response.
Empathy is the opposite of exploitation. It’s empathy that allows a writer to feel her way into someone else’s experience. A great writer like Tolstoy will feel a character’s life as his own; he’ll enter fully into that consciousness, and his responses will reverberate through his work. A great writer will use a narrative because she finds it moving, or compelling, troubling or heartbreaking or exhilarating. What drives her is empathy, not voyeurism.
Holding this soft, small living creature in my lap this way, though, and seeing how it slept with complete trust in me, I felt a warm rush in my chest. I put my hand on the cat’s chest and felt his heart beating. The pulse was faint and fast, but his heart, like mine, was ticking off the time allotted to his small body with all the restless earnestness of my own.
Haruki Murakami, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle (via observando)
My mother shows me the callouses on her hands from stripping tobacco plants. We walk to the barn where she hung stakes of leaves to dry. She points to where they kept hay for the cattle, and across the barbed wire fence to the rising bend of the herding road. She looks to the horizon when telling me how their noses froze to the ground in winter, and her father stayed out all night freeing them from the earths hold. I have Tennessee clay in my veins. The dirt where my Grandfather rests is under my nails, under my feet, and in my mind. We plant corn that summer and I let it crumble between my fingers, watching for the green leaves and waiting for cracked callouses to grow.