"Peter, what is the matter with you? You love this girl with all your heart and soul. Does she know that? Have you told her? Give her that. The rest of it is up to her. And you don’t have forever. None of us ever do.”
On a streetcorner in Williamsburg, a man sits at a folding table, a typewriter set before him. The sign on the table says, “Pick a subject and a price, get a poem.” When I stepped up, I asked what subjects he gets most often, which then segued into what subjects he writes best on. We ended up having a long discussion about the things people don’t or won’t say, the underlying current in so many situations. I said, “Then write that. The unspoken.”
This is what he wrote me. And what’s freakish is that despite the fact my personal life never came into the conversation, the poem seems to describe me to a frightening degree. x
What We Do Not Say :: Lynn Gentry
let handwritten letters never go out of style.
This is a ‘where are you visting from?’ board at a local restaurant
my latest illustration! an ode to my troubled love/hate relationship with clutter.
the only thing I think that can possibly make me feel better right now is beauty: I need golden light and large bodies of water and trees and humidity and in the evenings, I want to watch it all sparkle over the quiet and smile and think, “right now, this is beautiful and this is okay because it is bigger than me, than my tiny little fragile heart. there is no one I want to see, nothing I want to do. I just want to be gone and searching.