and mr. steinbeck, too. and then i'm done for the evening.

one of the most important things for a writer to do, it is said, is to write, but also along with that one most important thing for a writer to do is another most important thing, and that is to read.  a lot.  to do a lot, in fact, of both of these important things.

so, and, when one reads carefully and pays attention there are many thoughts written and read that are utterly forgettable and should be promptly forgotten, in order to leave room for the good stuff.  (it would be better, on the whole, to learn from having read whatever or whomever and just pass on it the next time around, paying attention to one's own patterns, to learn about self, and preferences; desires... and to respect those things...  another post, another post.  -- and yes, yes, only dropping after having given a few shots, but not too many, because we owe no word or person undeserving ANYTHING of our us, beyond consideration and politeness.)

oh, but and then there are the glories.  the words one finds which we want to slice from the page and suck on, letter by letter ingesting the sweet or strong or hue of it.  since that can't be done, least of all we don't forget them, we don't want to forget them, and we want to share them.  even those of us known for our greed of all things of the senses.

here is one i would suck dry, were that possible.  somehow it strikes me odd it comes from mr. steinbeck, and i find it gut-lovely.

from Steinbeck:  A Life in Letters:

There are several kinds of love. One is a selfish, mean, grasping, egotistical thing which uses love for self-importance. This is the ugly and crippling kind. The other is an outpouring of everything good in you — of kindness and consideration and respect — not only the social respect of manners but the greater respect which is recognition of another person as unique and valuable. The first kind can make you sick and small and weak but the second can release in you strength, and courage and goodness and even wisdom you didn’t know you had.

***

in which way are you loved?  and in which way do you love.

bitter pills for some, i think.

a present from mr. henry miller

...so i'm working and writing and working on writing but nothing is ready yet.  but look what mr. miller has to say, said so beautifully and in his own way, that makes me think:  oh yes.  and makes me wish for a small jiggerful of his intoxicating talent.

alas for me. 

but here, from The Wisdom of the Heart:

The aim of life is to live, and to live means to be aware joyously, drunkenly, serenely, divinely aware. In this state of god-like awareness one sings; in this realm the world exists as poem.

******


see what i mean? 

it IS all about the sprinklers and the clementines--precisely these.