Without Words
Yes, I love writing without words — but I love your face even more. ~ [ 2106 ]
Yes, I love writing without words — but I love your face even more. ~ [ 2106 ]
I’ve corrected the penultimate line. Instead of forgetting the earth is a ripe plum in a boy’s bleeding shirt pocket it’s now forgetting the earth is a ripe plum bleeding in a boy’s shirt pocket This might not seem a big thing, but I’m surprised, and a little disappointed, I didn’t notice it before. When our children were growing up, I told them often, Say what you mean, and mean […]
Am I my own best, most attentive reader, or am I like so many others who write, and who somehow remain strangers to their own words, as if they are embarrassing and awkward to be around? Haste is the great enemy. If, while reading, I do not engage all of my senses and weigh each line on a scale of personal and universal truth, while being sure that, as it […]
We meet each other in different languages, even when we write and speak the same. What we read and say and hear, is who we are and who we’ve been. What we mean, or what we think or hope we mean, matters less than listening, with love. . [ 1562 ]
If I say something and you disagree, then what I say is my opinion; whereas, if you agree, then what I say is the truth. But must they be either? They weren’t when I was a child, because what I said then wasn’t viewed on such narrow terms. I was trying to express myself, and to communicate as best I could. I wasn’t right and I wasn’t wrong. I was […]