2
" You think you have it all figured out—you’ve timed your commute, you’ve fit in your weekend run or you haven’t, you’ve got life down to a science, a mathematical equation of time, interest, and energy. But one day something stands up to you, surprises you in a place where you’ve determined never to be surprised. And that’s when you run. You move fast the wrong way through traffic. You think it’s working. But something deep inside, driving the rhythm of your steps, tells you that it isn’t. So you try again. You search for that tiny space hidden in you, untouched by everything that you’ve experienced or survived. "
― Ivy Pochoda , Wonder Valley
9
" The mud carries Anneke. There's a moment when she feels as if she is flying and floating. She closes her eyes, lets herself be carried. Is this what the woman in El Salvador felt bobbing in the waves? Was this how she bounced against rocks weightless on the water? When did she stop caring? Was it before she was tossed into the sea? Or was it when the darkness came across Rodger's eyes a floodtide of black that swallowed his irises? Down the mud goes. The hills of Malibu are receding above her. The mud is rushing invading some houses and skipping others. Is this house the world slips away in slow motion? Anneke is spinning buffeted from one side of the stream to the other. It's almost peaceful. These women. These women, beautiful and wild, out of control. These women he loved with a ferocity he couldn't tame, a passion he didn't understand. These women who tortured and tormented him. These women who would taunt screw and die. These women he loved, hated, and destroyed. These women. All these women who haunted Western. Anneke had tried to keep them safe, she tried. What more does the world want? The mud blankets her face as black as Rodger's stare. One by one things are lost to her: sight, smell, and now sound. She can no longer hear the mud roar. It has filled her ears. She continues down in quiet. "
― Ivy Pochoda , These Women