Few things in my life have had such a profound impact on me as White Oleander has. My sister gave the book to read when we’d first moved to California, just south of Los Angeles, a place near and far and massive and mysterious and romantic. I never have been quite able to write about it, like a lover I never really got away from. I’m still to close to see it clearly.
Sometimes I still get scared. I’m scared I’m going to have to go back to that place, the one that kept us up at night. The one that let me cry in the frozen food section at Trader Joes. I don’t want to go back to that place. I am thinking lately it might be the kind of things one can never do twice. Are we capable of being so broken only once because forever afterwards you are least know where the shovel is. They say if you are caught in an avalanche, to clear a space in the snow in front of your face and to spit. This way you can tell which direction is up or down before you start digging.
I like this idea here, never expect to outgrow the loneliness. As if the space it makes is essential in the digging process. Like we have to live with it and it with us. There is no use in fighting it. I keep on telling myself what will happen, will happen.