Always say “yes” to the present moment. What could be more futile, more insane, than to create inner resistance to what already is?
I want to be with those who know secret things
or else alone.
The Black Art
by Anne Sexton
A woman who writes feels too much,
those trances and portents!
As if cycles and children and islands
weren’t enough; as if mourners and gossips
and vegetables were never enough.
She thinks she can warn the stars.
A writer is essentially a spy.
Dear love, I am that girl.
A man who writes knows too much,
such spells and fetiches!
As if erections and congresses and products
weren’t enough; as if machines and galleons
and wars were never enough.
With used furniture he makes a tree.
A writer is essentially a crook.
Dear love, you are that man.
Never loving ourselves,
hating even our shoes and our hats,
we love each other precious, precious.
Our hands are light blue and gentle.
Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
But when we marry,
the children leave in disgust.
There is too much good and no one left over
to eat up all the weird abundance.
Discontent is the first necessity of progress.
Let’s make better mistakes tomorrow.
Decide you want it more than you are afraid of it.
A wild longing for strong emotions and sensations seethes in me, a rage against this toneless, flat, normal and sterile life.
I change too quickly: my today refutes my yesterday. When I ascend I often jump over steps, and no step forgives me that.
The more I threw away, the more I found.
Remember, we bathe under the same sun, and sleep under the same moon. We are much closer than you think.