Jenny Slate

I told her that I wanted my garden to be like the inside of what I see in myself. You see my garden, you come into my home, and it tells you not just what I like to see and what I want to be around, but how you should treat me. I am the live thing that belongs here, with other live things like this.

I believe that wildness belongs in people.
I believe that wildness belongs in the home. I believe this and so I belong in myself and in my home. My gods are inside of me first and foremost, and the mother of all of them is the wild one.

I need to prove to myself that there is an appetite for sweet things that are lonely in the night.

but sometimes in the time before I died and after you died I kissed three stars into the air of where your body used to be in the bed, thinking thoughts like, “If I can’t have him then I will bring the sky down into the bed, one kiss at a time, and then it will be like I am in the cosmos with him.” It was a fun activity that helped me fall asleep.

“Here we are again in a new day. I want you to see it with me.” And this description above is an example of how you can gaze on yourself with love when nobody is there to do that for you, and how you can make it so that your own loving gaze is truthful and not obsessive or vain. You can wake up like this, be this, and tell yourself that this is an example of how a day can start on Earth.

I am a citizen of many dimensions, and now I slip between them easily. I never slip away from myself by simplifying myself. I can’t become smaller to fit into a crouching love in somebody else’s meager world.

They looked at my face. My weak little peepers opened up just a bit. I saw that they had broken their own rules for how close to be to other people. I saw that it was possible to do it, to be closer than is allowed. Maybe I never got it for myself, that kind of closeness during which emotion fuses you together and you can only see that there is a separation between you and your beloved if you use a microscope. Maybe I never got it for myself but I did see it for myself. I saw it with my dying eyes.

Write a letter to someone. Tell them that this is not a tragedy. The rest of me went home to the universe.

What should I be? I suppose I want to be the hero, but not really, and I want to be the one, but not really, anymore. Mostly I want you to look at me and realize what happened and say sorry at least, and really consider me for a moment in your own padded organized mind and then let me give you your dog back and I will take that tiny chunk of my identity back, the one that you walked off with, and I will take it back and hold on.

But it is the planting of the pit that is the hard part. The part where you have to go down there and cover a small hard thing with dark matter. The part where you are supposed to believe in a process and the part when you must admit to your desire for the thing to work, and that is hard too. But you can do it if you want to try to do it, and the act is singular and special even though also you may have to do it many times over and a few of those times the pit will simply stay a pit. You will have to be comfortable with the truth that there is a stone in the dark, a grave for a hope.