Denis Johnson Quote
From a Berkeley Notebook'~Denis JohnsonOne changes so muchfrom moment to momentthat when one hugsoneself against the chillair at the inceptionof spring, at night,knees drawn to chin,he finds himself in the armsof a total stranger,the arms of one he might moveaway from on the dark playground.Also, it breaks the heartthat the sign revolving likea flame above the gasstation remembers the priceof gas, but forgets entirelythis face it has beenlooking at all day.And so the heart is exhaustedthat even the faceof the dismal facts we waitfor the loves of the pastto come walking from the fire,the tree, the stone, tangibleand unchanged and repentantbut what can you do.Half the time I thinkabout my wife and child,the other half I think howto become a citizenwith an apartment, and sextoo is quite on my mind,though it seems the womenhave no time for you here,for which in my larger, moremature moments I can’t blame them.These are the absolutePastures I am led to:I am in Berkeley, California,trapped inside my body,I am the secret my bodyis going to keep forever,as if its secret weremerely silence. It liesbetween two mistakesof the earth,the San Andreasand Hayward faults,and at night fromthe hill above the stadiumwhere I sleep,I can see the yellowaurora of TelegraphAvenue upliftedby the holocaust.My sleepingbag has littlecowboys lassoing bullsembroidered all overits pastel innerlining, the pines are talland straight, convergingin a sort of roofabove me, it’s nice,oh loves, oh loves, whyaren’t you here? Morgan,my pyjamas are solonesome withoutthe orangutans—I writeand write, and transcendnothing, escapenothing, nothingis truly born from me,yet magically it’s betterthan nothing—I knowyou must be quitechanged by now, but youare just the same, too,like those stars that keepshining for a long time afterthey go out—but it’s just a lightthey touch us with thisevening amid the finerain like mist, among the pines.
From a Berkeley Notebook'~Denis JohnsonOne changes so muchfrom moment to momentthat when one hugsoneself against the chillair at the inceptionof spring, at night,knees drawn to chin,he finds himself in the armsof a total stranger,the arms of one he might moveaway from on the dark playground.Also, it breaks the heartthat the sign revolving likea flame above the gasstation remembers the priceof gas, but forgets entirelythis face it has beenlooking at all day.And so the heart is exhaustedthat even the faceof the dismal facts we waitfor the loves of the pastto come walking from the fire,the tree, the stone, tangibleand unchanged and repentantbut what can you do.Half the time I thinkabout my wife and child,the other half I think howto become a citizenwith an apartment, and sextoo is quite on my mind,though it seems the womenhave no time for you here,for which in my larger, moremature moments I can’t blame them.These are the absolutePastures I am led to:I am in Berkeley, California,trapped inside my body,I am the secret my bodyis going to keep forever,as if its secret weremerely silence. It liesbetween two mistakesof the earth,the San Andreasand Hayward faults,and at night fromthe hill above the stadiumwhere I sleep,I can see the yellowaurora of TelegraphAvenue upliftedby the holocaust.My sleepingbag has littlecowboys lassoing bullsembroidered all overits pastel innerlining, the pines are talland straight, convergingin a sort of roofabove me, it’s nice,oh loves, oh loves, whyaren’t you here? Morgan,my pyjamas are solonesome withoutthe orangutans—I writeand write, and transcendnothing, escapenothing, nothingis truly born from me,yet magically it’s betterthan nothing—I knowyou must be quitechanged by now, but youare just the same, too,like those stars that keepshining for a long time afterthey go out—but it’s just a lightthey touch us with thisevening amid the finerain like mist, among the pines.