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I am not happy, help me — like a message in a bottle sent in each meal to the eater, and I got it. I got the message.

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Bottle Eater Esch Happy Help Meal Message Sent

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I felt the crumpled paper that had taken the place of my lungs expand as if released from a fist.
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You try, you seem totally nuts, you go underground.
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Not getting bored of my own story and/or character is one of the main struggles.
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It seems the best work I do is when I am really allowing the unconscious to rule the page and then later I can go back and hack around and make sense of things.
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It was like we were exchanging codes, on how to be a father and a daughter, like we’d read about it in a manual, translated from another language, and were doing our best with what we could understand.
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I was with them for all of it, but more like an echo than a participant.
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Language is the ticket to plot and character, after all, because both are built out of language.
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She is the first gesture that creates a quiet that is full enough to make the baby sleep. My genes, my love, are rubber bands and rope; make yourself a structure you can live inside. Amen.
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I am the drying meadow; you the unspoken apology; he is the fluctuating distance between mother and son.
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I was right at the edge of their circle, like the tail of a Q…
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It’s such a fraught and exciting and kind of horrible time.
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That she might not actually know us seemed the humblest thing a mother could admit.
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I am not happy, help me — like a message in a bottle sent in each meal to the eater, and I got it. I got the message.
AIMEE BENDER

Bottle Eater Esch Happy Help Meal Message Sent
The most so far, because she found the saddest thing of all to be the simple truth of her capacity to move on.
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I like birthday cake. It’s so symbolic. It’s a tempting symbol to load with something more complicated than just ‘Happy birthday!’ because it’s this emblem of childhood and a happy day.
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