in the present

Alas, the great Wikipedia has come to the rescue, yet again, to help define words and phrases that inevitably are used to describe grand things such as, the self. Upon internal investigation, nomad was the word I could use as a logical self-description in the present.

Nomad:

“Communities of people who move from one place to another, rather than settling permanently in one location. There are an estimated 30-40 million nomads in the world.

There are three kinds of nomads:

"hunter-gatherers" moving between hunting grounds,
"pastoral nomads" moving between pastures, and
"peripatetic nomads" moving between customers.

Nomadic hunter-gatherers have by far the longest-lived subsistence method in human history.”

delicacy

"I forgot how much I remembered his apartment.

I had taken such vivid photographs in my memory of each crevice, every corner and every barefooted step.

I remembered in such distinct details the hardwood floors, the maps and records on the wall. His record player. The way his bathroom looked in certain light and the way his window shown down over the rain-soaked street.

His tan, cashmere-like-sheets that stretched over his two pillows. I had captured his sink condiments and bowls filled with memorabilia.

Most of all, I remembered the smell. And his smile that touched both ears. And that laughter. Oh my god the laughter. His apartment, a restaurant, a room, it turned into a symphony hall when he laughed.

And his sweetness. Not just his manner or his actions towards me. But his general nature. He had this sweet, tenderness to him. I can’t describe it. A delicate softness, filled with so much sweetness I was scared to have too much.

And everything, everything is lovely. And the words I describe for him, are for no one else.

They remain his. And I like it that way.

He embodies this fragile charm that melts me.

It melts me and I seep through the cracks in the floor.

And I float.

Trying to soak inside him. But I can’t. and that’s okay.

Because I know I shouldn’t. but I crave something sweet, all the time now."

Advice to Writers

From one of my dearest friends, Alice, who does not know the magnitude her tiny gestures make in my heart.


Even if it keeps you up all night,
wash down the walls and scrub the floor
of your study before composing a syllable.

Clean the place as if the Pope were on his way.
Spotlessness is the niece of inspiration.

The more you clean, the more brilliant
your writing will be, so do not hesitate to take
to the open fields to scour the undersides
of rocks or swab in the dark forest
upper branches, nests full of eggs.

When you find your way back home
and stow the sponges and brushes under the sink,
you will behold in the light of dawn
the immaculate altar of your desk,
a clean surface in the middle of a clean world.

From a small vase, sparkling blue, lift
a yellow pencil, the sharpest of the bouquet,
and cover pages with tiny sentences
like long rows of devoted ants
that followed you in from the woods.

-Billy Collins