FragNotes

Olivia Dresher

Reading a novel is a commitment, a long journey. Reading a fragment is a quick journey, one that takes you immediately there.

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Fragments give me strength.
The shorter the writing, the stronger I feel.

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Fragments leap, fragments jump.

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Fragments are headlines. Fragments are background music. Fragments can be anything, go anywhere. They can scream or become the near-silence of breathing in, breathing out. They can fill the sky or slip in between the cracks.

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Fragments are levels, moods, preludes, aftermaths…

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I feel whole when I write fragments.

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Fragments make the moment last.

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She wishes he could read her thoughts.
The next best thing: reading her fragments.

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Fragments to the rescue.

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All her illusions have been shattered (almost):
why she writes fragments.

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One thought after another,
one foot after another,
one fragment after another—
this is the way.

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Brief eye contact with strangers: fragments of intimacy.

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When I write fragments, I feel either very fierce or very tender.

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Fragments: catching glimpses of…

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A fragment is maybe and yes and why and because.

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Fragments are fearless.

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Every moment, you don’t know what’s going to happen or what you’ll feel. Then a fragment pops in to surprise and orient you, leading the way.

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A fragment is a flash of lightning…lightning so complete no thunder follows it.

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Fragments are fields of wildflowers.

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I read somewhere that communication changes brain chemistry. Maybe fragments can, too.

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Fragments are passwords, secret codes, shadows, stepping stones…

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Fragments, all of us are fragments. Billions of human fragments on this planet that’s just a fragment of the universe.

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The shimmerings of her old plum tree in the early evening light: Fragments.

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A fragment can be short or long, complete or incomplete, intentional or unintentional. A fragment expands and contracts, can take on any personality, any flavor.

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This is a fragment.

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Fragments go fast, yet they teach patience, savoring.

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Writing fragments is like discovering buried treasure.

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Fragments are the tappings of a blind man’s cane as he walks to the bus stop along the sidewalk.

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Fragments are fragrances.

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Sometimes she wrote fragments when she couldn’t sleep, and they became her dreams.

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Fragments are wild peeks into essence.

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Reread a fragment, again and again; it feels new each time.

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Fragments are naked.
Fragments are costumes.
Fragments are diamonds.
Fragments are dirt.

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A fragment can be a question or an answer. Or the distance between them shrinking.

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Fragments and daydreams hold hands.
(Opposites attract. So do similarities.)

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Fragments are bombs, fragments are snowflakes.

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Fragments fall onto the page the way leaves fall in my backyard in the wind.

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Fragments find me, I don’t find them.

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Sometimes a fragment arrives all by itself, sometimes many arrive in a flood…

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Memories are fragments.

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Fragments are infinite possibility in a tiny space.

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She questions everything, except fragments.
Fragments say: we were, we are, we will be. Here.

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Fragments are longings, fragments are confessions, fragments are scents.

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A fragment can be fancy or plain, dessert or the main course.

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The kaleidoscopic feel of fragments.

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Fragments fly.

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To write a fragment is to ride a merry-go-round
that goes slowly around in the autumn breeze.

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She thought to herself: I fall in love so easily…with fragments.

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Friendly fragments. Reclusive fragments. Fragments understood, fragments misunderstood. Fragments that are shy, fragments that are exhibitionists.

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Thrifty fragments.

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Fragments ease loneliness. A fragment is the missing piece.

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Fragments satisfy hunger without filling you up. One can’t get fat on fragments.

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To write a fragment is to dance with it.

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A fragment can be playful and serious at the same time.

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Every fragment I write feels like the first fragment I’ve ever written.

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A fragment has many relatives, yet each is solitary, childless.

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Gentle contradictions, soothing paradoxes. That’s what fragments are.

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Fragments are crumbs, fragments are afterimages.

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Photos and fragments share the same secret.

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Writing a fragment is like finding a lost key.

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Fragments whisper, fragments hum. Fragments are melodies that linger.

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Who does she write her fragments for? For the robin that sings at 3:00 a.m. in early June.

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Fragments have no beginning or end, they’re always becoming.

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Fragments give themselves away.

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