the quality of light

I love writing in a way I love few beings and entities of this world, with my eyes half-closed and the scent of dream still on my skin. But sometimes with work half-done and a soft embracing image in my mind, sleep creeps in.

Tonight I cannot finish what I am writing. I can't show you the snowy world glistening inside of me, but I can tell you that it is there. And in it, the light through the window shines so pure, heaven is illuminated under the skin of a perfectly imperfect mortal.

I should say, though, that this is the world I see every day. I just lose patience counting the minutes until I can share it.

Virtual Care Package

View from a skyscraper. Skyscraper of your choice. Anywhere in the world. To have the world at your feet. Literally. Immeasurably better than a pat on the back.

Long weekend watching Monty Python, eating whatever the heck you damn well please. And because I'm a fan, I'll throw in some DVDs featuring Will Ferrell, Vince Vaughn, Owen Wilson, and Ben Stiller. Let someone else make you laugh. Works wonders. And if what damn well pleases you should include

Homemade Italian food (and it should), then I've totally got that covered. The chef recommends the wild mushroom and goat cheese risotto, but the lasagna is also reliably delicious, as well as the eggplant parmigiana. In some circles, the braised short ribs and meatballs in my grandmother's gravy is acknowledged to be exquisite. By the way, I'll need preferences in advance as I am very particular about where I do my grocery shopping. I must mandate, however, that the menu include

Soup. Also homemade. Accompanied by tea, with honey and lemon. Warm liquids soothe the throat, and your voice should need soothing right about now.

Wine. Because, really, when can a person not benefit from some vino? It calms. For

Sleep. A lot more than you are currently getting. And to that end, you'll need

• The power to stop time for the rest of the world but continue living yourself, so you can actually sleep for longer than five hours at a time.
• Bedtime stories, lullabyes, and soothing affirmations in a foreign language. Originals, of course; slightly off-key, likely; in italiano, sì? Non c'è nessun altro nel mondo abbastanza come tu.
• Perpetually-cool, heaven-scented pillow of ideal firmness and fluffiness. Also requires you to specify preferences: so what does heaven smell like to you?
• Relative silence, excepting the white noise of nature. Because it isn't words that are the most important.

Resulting in...

Sweet dreams.

A new day.

Sunshine.

The open road. How much is ever enough?

...and eventually...

Home. A piece of architecture, yes, but that's not the home I mean. I mean the pieces of home that are so small they fit inside the house itself, and you fit inside of them--a sofa, a bed, a kitchen chair, a hug; and also the pieces that are so vast, the only place they fit is inside of you--joy, serenity, security, and hope.

A virtual care package is delivered in a sideless, topless, bottomless, dimensionless, timeless box, so if you have any particular requests just let me know. I'm sure they'll fit.

Tactile

Often folks will assume that because I am a writer, because I teach writing, I conduct my life from an ivory tower and prefer it that way. Sometimes, I find this grating. Sometimes, it hurts me. Sometimes, it hurts me because these people have been hurt themselves.

I live a life in my mind, but it is inseparable from my body. I write because I want to touch the world. Not metaphorically. Literally. I literally want to touch the world. I want to reach out with my two-week-old manicure and run my fingertips over every single thing.

"I touched all the plants at the Botanical Gardens," she writes, "until my companion asked me how I knew which ones were poisonous."

"That was one of the first things he said to me," she tells me. "'I'm a tactile person.'" I've not yet met him, but I imagine I can smooth my thumb along the ridges of her love for him.

He instant messages me, "I'm a hands-on person."

I could go on--on with quotes, on with links, on with people in my life who love to touch. Who love people who love to touch.

"I knew I didn't want to be locked in a room with books for four years," he says. "I wanted to be out in the world, making things." And I can hear the hesitation in his voice as he realizes he's saying this to a writer. If he'd said it in person, I'd have grabbed his hand, entwined my fingers with his, kissed each one. Murmured that I know what school does to those who love their own hands too much.

The best teachers show you how to use your hands to get what's on the page into your brain. And to use your mind to turn what's at your fingertips into words. Just so you know you can. Even if you choose not to.

The best teachers know that we don't yet teach each person's heart's content. Those of us who'd already loved books just happened to have gotten lucky.

"There is nothing sensual about winter."

We buy a case of mangoes, take them home, choose a few ripe ones, slice them, put them in a tupperware in the refrigerator. I put a few slices in a bowl and sit cross-legged on a chair at the kitchen table.

"Why are you eating that with your fingers?"

"Because there is nothing sensual about winter."


Actually, there is. There is a lot sensual about winter. But none of that is what I want to feel today--velvet and cashmere and wool; hot soup and tea and drinking chocolate. The sensations of winter are found in what covers us and fills our stomachs. Where is the sticky mango juice dripping down a chin, falling onto bare toes? I want to write something--something that has skin and sweat and hands that know too much. I have a desire for desire. But what's that if you can't muster desire itself?

Winter is getting to me. Already. Outside, everyone is covered. Today, there is no mystery even in the long darkness; there is only flannel pajamas. I want flesh in front of me. I want to see skin. Muscle. A sheen of sweat. I'm not dancing nearly enough.


"Mangoes and fingers, huh?"

"Yes."

Sea Glass

I wake up slowly in the morning, the luxury of working afternoons. After a few months of this, I realize why I’ve always thought I hated waking up early. It’s not the hour that’s the problem—it’s the sharpness of alarm clocks, their automated disregard for the progress of my dreams. The night dreams and the waking.

Waking up slowly, I write scenes. I’d always thought they were fantasies, a luxury whose time-toll I could not afford. Or worse—by-products encasing empty calories, beer bottles tossed carelessly into the sea. But the images feel organic. With room to evolve, they writhe into the shape of drama—first people, then scenes. The scenes replay and I put words to them. Several times in one slow morning, I run the words, then whisper them, head still on the pillow, eyes still shut, until finally the scene comes to a natural end. Climax, dénouement. I open my eyes.

I write by hand. I like the feel of different pens, their sounds as they slide across the paper, the bleeding of the ink as it courses into the fibers. The words people love best are always written by hand.

Showers help when I can go no further. Water courses over the words, picks them up, tosses them, breaks them and rearranges, carries them along, smoothes them out. Running water has a presence and a rhythm that I can close my eyes and hear. And borrow. Later, I can read aloud.

Finally, I type. Tapping fingers have a different rhythm than running water, a different rhythm than coursing ink. The three meld. Always, I change things--words, details, actions. A guiding hand on the back inches closer to the hip. A shout becomes a whisper. Bitten fingernails, a bitten lip. The words I imagined saying, now to be murmured by someone else. But always, they’re mine. Still me. Still to be spoken. Still what would slip out if the phone rang too early, and I answered in my haze, and you asked.