I found out in my Creative Psych class that I’m an INFP — a dreamer. Not terribly surprising and actually remarkably satisfying.
When Church is more important than going to the beach with your family, your priorities are out of order.
talking about the lady who made the head of the Virgin Mary
out of cut up pieces of magazines and broken glass and a
can of carpenter’s glue—and then there’s the girl I know
who works in the supermarket, who printed an entire anthology
of poems on a single eight-and-a-half-by-eleven sheet of
Xerox paper and folded a hundred copies down to wallet size
and passed them out to anyone who dared look her in the eye.
You know what I mean: there are all those lonely, desperate,
weird minds—yours among them for all I know—and the
Dharma is everywhere, books and words and people thinking,
beat-up notebooks from the dollar store, scribbling the world
into them—a man has a mystery, a woman has an adventure,
the kids are banging rhymes together like tin cans full of
old nails. Where’s it all going, this clatter, this wonder,
this rant against anguish? I tell myself to stay calm. I tell
myself to step back and take a breath. I twist and shift in my
tall black chair. I can hear the city coming in through the kitchen’s
window-screens. Night birds, crickets in the unseasonable heat,
some might say dead souls keening in their rivers of fire or
choirs of angels out in the eucalyptus trees, but beyond it all you
hear nothing but the deep nothing—or maybe that’s the far-off roar
of a motorcycle: If the night is just right, if the moment is perfect,
you know as well as I do that you don’t need to tell the difference."
— Frank X. Gaspar
A man with wispy blonde hair approached me in the very first peaks of light today. Under the hypnotic state of morning after two hours of sleep I felt and thought nothing as he approached. He asked me to bring him coffee and said his name was Bert. I brought him coffee, asked for a cigarette and sat inside and ate my breakfast.
I saw him stand after drinking his coffee and look through the glass door, and I regretted not smiling more, maybe slipping my number into his hand as I gave him the coffee. “Does this truly happen in real life?” he would think, holding my phone number as I mysteriously walked away.
Alone in his room for hours, he would stare at my number and consider calling me. Within a week I’d hear his voice and immediately envision his hopeful blue eyes. And his voice would go something like this: “I want to repay you for the coffee; come out to breakfast with me?”
— Anton Chekhov