1-Our fictions are only as interesting as the possible truths behind them.
2-"The strength of the character's wants equals the strength of the play." (Frank Hauser)
3-First, there's the loss of naivete. Of realizing that so many hopes and and perceptions were so different from reality. Realizing your parents are flawed human beings too. That the person you'll marry won't be everything and more, but also human and imperfect. That no matter how hard you try, you'll never be able to always be happy and have everything you want all the time.
And then you move on. And realize that you don't really need those things. That life is glorious even with all it's imperfections and disappointments amidst the occasional triumph.
Things become even better then.
This is gratitude: realizing the true value of things without comparing them endlessly to the mint-condition gold standard ideal. Loving in spite of imperfection
4-There's never enough time. And that's ok.
trying to say more with less
Helen's Harp
'Ten o'clock at night?' she exclaimed.
It had long since gotten dark.
'I see lights over there, and a darkness over there. And when you stand between me and the light, I can almost see your shadow'
Her eyes were silver and unseeing, catching the glint of the chandelier above. She sat in her silk white night gown and a whiter terry robe untied loosely round her waist. Her frizzy hair was a grey halo flaming off her scalp, and when she looked at me, she looked both far beyond and yet no farther than the insides of her eyes.
I handed her the autoharp, and she became the vision of a perfect fiery seraphim waiting on the edges of this world.
Her blind fingers touched the air gingerly, looking for the keys as she softly strummed away. The notes were distant and tinny.
'It has such a gentle sound'
and sometimes when she closed her eyes, I couldn't tell if she was sleeping or not.
'I keep them closed so much now' she said. 'I can't see with them open anyway, and it helps with the dryness'. She had lived her entire life in a desert.
But as she told us stories of travels and family, childhood and motherhood, her eyes would dart back and forth, scan the horizon--visions of a distant life sprang up on the canvas of her inner eye.
She was strumming so softly we could barely hear, but the notes were perfect until we put the harp away.
Offerings
Every night, after everyone has gone to sleep, I am still awake. I am a hunter and I hunt alone.
I slip quietly out the back door and the night is dark and cool and filled with the throbbing sounds of chanting crickets.
I slink out into the shadows and keep my head low.
It's there in the blackest blackness that I wait and listen.
Cars off in the distance.
Neighbors watching tv next door.
And then...a faint rustling in the leaves. A scampering through the grass and a brief flash of beady eyes.
My gently curving spring-loaded spine uncoils as I fly forward, grasping palms extended as I leave the ground.
Contact. Claws sink silently.
I've got it in my hands, then by the neck in my teeth. It stops twitching after a few shakes, and I saunter back to the porch.
I'll leave it, fully intact, on the doormat.
A thank you.
A "you feed me, I'll feed you" gesture.
But I know it still will be there in the morning. My gifts are never good enough.
A bigger one will come out in the morning, I'll slink inside the door, pretending not to watch for her reaction. But really, I'll be spying through the corner of my pale slit eyes as the long-maned one twists and stretches her mouth and closes the door in a huff.
It still will be there in the morning and I'll pretend to be aloof.
So now I'll sulk off into the night again to wait and watch and pounce and prey until I get a second for myself.
My gifts are always good enough for me.
Look and Listen
'Audience' comes from the latin verb 'audiere' meaning 'to hear'.
Also from latin is 'spectat', meaning 'to look', which gave rise to 'spectators'.
