Tightrope to the Sun: 7.5.2015

Sunday, July 5

The last elephant died in a zoo in Arizona, across the street from the dental office specializing in incisor implants and Novocaine overdoses. She stared across the street as ten men tried to push and pull the elephant onto an oversized stretcher while she felt her hands play inside the sandy blonde hair of the man in the chair. He let his deep set eyes finally rest under her touch, closing the lids over the murky waters hidden inside of them. The mountain range extending from his nose to the purse on his lips was too delicious to leave untouched and she let her fingers wander between the valleys and hills.

"She cried for months before she died, didn't she?" He asked.

"She needed attention. Nobody wants to die alone even when it's for the best that they do."

"I want to die right here." He was nervous. The blood in his veins shook when the needle went in and began to pulse to where she attached the other end to the center of her heart. They shared grief and blood and the death of the elephant. Their blood spooled back and forth between them as the elephant was dragged away.

via *

words

Confess to yourself in the deepest hour of the night whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write. Dig deep into your heart, where the answer spreads its roots in your being, and ask yourself solemnly, 'Must I write?'

-Rainer Maria Rilke

Vitality shows in not only the ability to persist but the ability to start over.

-F. Scott Fitzgerald

That is part of the beauty of all literature. You discover that your longings are universal longings, that you're not lonely and isolated from anyone. You belong.

-F. Scott Fitzgerald

There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.

-Ernest Hemingway

Study broadly and without fear.

-John Green

Writing is hard. Not as hard as not writing. Not writing is torturous, bloody, chaotic, and a gruesome winless battle. A writer who writes, knows peace, lives connected to truth. Not writing is ache, betrayal, death of the soul and imagination.

-Coco J. Ginger

6 comments:

ShadowJuly 6, 2015 at 4:27 AM
It's cold. It's dark. It's a strange detachment.
AmyJuly 6, 2015 at 12:28 PM
Sad but lovely
JJuly 6, 2015 at 4:42 PM
This was so beautiful in description and emotion.
Lola DayJuly 9, 2015 at 9:40 PM
The image you have illustrated here is so beautifully deranged... I could see it as a cryptic, grainy-style film.
I am more sympathetic for the elephant because she was alone and didn't get to spend her remaining days in the company of a creature who could understand her. I'm actually saddened by this.
For these characters, it seems they have to go on carrying on in life with the memory of not only the elephant but everything else. I hope for better memories to come for not only them, but also for their author.
CherylJuly 13, 2015 at 4:38 AM
I came to say thank you for the lovely comment you left on my blog recently, but now it's a double thank you, as your comment lead me here to your beautiful corner of the web. I read this post like a drunk - without stopping, feeling high, wanting more, Poor elephant. There was a deliciously surreal element to this, but I couldn't decide whether it felt more like dream or nightmare...can't wait to read more of your work. Your words are wonderful.

Thank you for your words; they light a fire in my heart. You are lovely.