i was so busy gawking at him that i dumped two cups of scalding coffee down my chest.
he helped me clean it up. and remembered my name from a week-long workshop i did with him two years earlier.
it was worth the burn.
anyway, part of the reason i consider him a personal god is because i can open a book of his randomly and find relevance in whatever comes up. and not in that magazine horoscope vague kind of way.
like, spooky.
i opened to this one today while i was unpacking my books and it really struck a cord. ive been so frustrated with the writing process recently, how much more enjoyable thinking about writing is than actually writing, how noisy and empty my words are.
so theres that.
and then theres the silence of the cradled phone.
collins, my love, you forgot about that cursed quiet.
Silence
BY BILLY COLLINS
There is the sudden silence of the crowd
above a player not moving on the field,
and the silence of the orchid.
The silence of the falling vase
before it strikes the floor,
the silence of the belt when it is not striking the child.
The stillness of the cup and the water in it,
the silence of the moon
and the quiet of the day far from the roar of the sun.
The silence when I hold you to my chest,
the silence of the window above us,
and the silence when you rise and turn away.
And there is the silence of this morning
which I have broken with my pen,
a silence that had piled up all night
like snow falling in the darkness of the house—
the silence before I wrote a word
and the poorer silence now.
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