Thursday, 17 March 2011


Maybe it's because it used to be trees, and when things get written on trees it means love. Quiet crunching of penknife or sharp tip of housekey into bark to mark out ME + YOU inside a heartshape with an arrow passing through it. Maybe that's why it's always adventure and wildness, this book-holding feel. Maybe that's why it's always a comfort, and wanting to create your own book is simply akin to wanting to feel closer to what people have longtime called nature. Wanting things to start out like saplings in dirt, with your fingertips packing that dirt tight at their base. Setting them firm in the face of the wind. Watering them when the skies go too long without rain. Watching it. Camping beside it, sleeping bag in its shadow and watching it grow. Watching cycle of sun and moon overhead. Noting seasons, thickening, roughening of bark. Watching and waiting, once the things are full grown, for the glinting and crunching of housekeys and penknives, and for words to be read out from the tree like paired lists of lovers' names.

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