One day a young Buddhist on his journey home, came to the banks of a wide river. Staring hopelessly at the great obstacle in front of him, he pondered for hours on just how to cross such a wide barrier. Just as he was about to give up his pursuit to continue his journey he saw a great teacher on the other side of the river. The young Buddhist yells over to the teacher, “Oh wise one, can you tell me how to get to the other side of this river?”
The teacher ponders for a moment looks up and down the river and yells back, “My son, you are on the other side.”.
Ruins of 19th Century Manor House by alterallensteiner (flckr creative commons)
“Life is either a dream or a frenzy, inside an enclosure.” ~ D. H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley’s Lover
Thursday evening. Rapidly dropping temperatures after a lovely high of 70 degrees.
First let me say that there will be no ranting tonight. Just thought I should let you know right upfront since the past two days have been pretty vitriolic, even for me.
Today I finally set up my Avon representative e-site. I thought that I would give this a whirl just to see if I can make a bit of money from it. Who knows. If anyone is interested in checking it out, click here. I did send an e-mail to a few people in my mailbox, but it was automatically generated, so I have no idea what it said . . .
So at the moment, I’m listening to some tunes and munching on saltines. I saw my PCP on Tuesday, and most of my blood work was fine. Only problem was that for some reason, the lab didn’t do my lipid profile or my thyroid, which meant that I had to fast again and go back on Wednesday. Those are probably the two most important tests for me: my triglycerides and my thyroid. One troubling thing: I seem to have adult onset diabetes (just barely). The reality is that if I start exercising again and cut down on the carbs (no rice?), I should be fine without any additional medication, which suits me just fine.
Tomorrow is the eye doctor. I don’t think that I’ve looked forward to an eye appointment so eagerly since my very first appointment which I had when I was 12. I had put off telling my mother that I thought that I needed glasses until I could no longer see the blackboard. For a while, I borrowed Kim Reese’s glasses (funny, the things you remember). I was so eager to have glasses so that I could see things clearly again, but getting used to glasses was hard as I didn’t wear them all of the time; hence, I lost my first pair fairly quickly.
The reason I didn’t wear my glasses all of the time? Because of something my mother said to me (and yes, you will probably be horrified): “Boys don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses.” What the hell? And you people wonder why I have such low self-esteem. That was fairly typical for the kinds of things my mother said to me, and at the time, it was a pretty stupid thing to say as I wasn’t even really interested in boys yet.
“With the daggers I pilfered from an angel I build my dwelling.” ~ Edmond Jabès, from “Slumber Inn”
(Just an aside: If you’ve never heard Eva Cassidy’s version of Sting’s “Fields of Gold,” you should give it a listen. Beautiful.)
Isn’t the above just a bone-jolting quote? “Daggers I pilfered from an angel”—wow. I mean, just think about it, someone writing about stealing daggers from an angel, the juxtaposition of the hard g-sound in daggers with the fluidity of pilfered and dwelling. Bold. Beautiful. Mystical. I love it.
I have come to Edmond Jabès late in life, but at least I have finally found him. Jabès was born an Egyptian Jew but was forced to relocate to France during the Suez Crisis in 1956, where he become one of the most famous post-war French poets. I haven’t read any of his books yet, but as is often the case in life, I keep running across quotes from his work in the strangest places, and the more I read, the more that I want to read. I suppose that I shall begin with The Book of Questions, Vol. I.
Paul Aster in the New York Review of Books said this about the book: “Neither novel nor poem, neither essay nor play, The Book of Questions is a combination of all these forms, a mosaic of fragments, aphorisms, dialogues, songs, and commentaries that endlessly move around the central question of the book: how to speak what cannot be spoken.” I find the description very appealing, that Jabès’ work is an amalgamation of writing forms.
“I have followed a book in its persistence, a book which is the story of a thousand stories as night and day are the prow of a thousand poems. I have followed it where day succeeds the night and night the day, where the seasons are four times two hundred and fifty seasons” ~ The Book of Questions, p. 325
“Mystery is truth’s dancing partner.” ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
My tumblr dash continues to be a sustaining source of inspiration for me. I find that I open it each day with an emotion akin to giddiness (truthfully, I just don’t do giddy) at what new, beautiful things I will see and read there. The dash is where I first saw words by Jabès, where each day I see incredible photographs of abandoned castles, old writing desks, empty performance houses.
I’m not sure where my love of abandoned buildings comes from. I’ve only been in a few, but I love to see pictures of them. I’m certain that if I were younger and still able to do such things, I would be one of those urban adventurers who seeks out abandoned buildings, the ruins of castles and manor opens, old opera houses, empty hospitals that still house rusty gurneys in hollow exam rooms. I think that such places are filled with a singular mystery and beauty because they are abandoned. And once so, they assume a presence of their own.
The emptiness allows the imagination to run free: What kind of soprano stood in the middle of that stage? Was she wearing a red velvet dress? Who sat in this alcove and looked out the lake and the gazebo and the trees? How many people climbed this staircase? Why did they leave just the shell of a grand piano here and nothing else?
These are the kinds of things that I ponder if I just let my mind wander, and it only stokes within me more of a desire to visit these places, to walk through the crumbling entrance to an abandoned manor. It’s like Harry Potter returning to Sirius Black’s family home and looking beneath the dusty bed, finding part of a letter written in his mother’s handwriting. Those forgotten pieces of the past that most people see as trash and junk—what secrets do they hold?
I remember walking to school when we lived in London. Part of the route took us past the iron fence to an old hospital. One day, I noticed a woman’s black clutch purse shoved behind a bush. I thought about that purse for weeks: Who did it belong to? Who put it there? Why? I wanted to look inside that purse so badly that I almost became obsessed. I didn’t care about finding money; I wanted to see what the purse revealed about its owner. I still remember exactly what that purse looked like. I was six, seven at the most.
“When others asked the truth of me, I was convinced it was not the truth they wanted, but an illusion they could bear to live with.” ~ Anaïs Nin
Last night, in keeping with our newest addiction, Corey and I watched a particularly good episode of “Dr. Who” called “Vincent and the Doctor.” It was the episode in which the doctor and Amy Pond went back in time to Provence to see Vincent van Gogh (played by Tony Curran, a great likeness for the self-portrait). I had already seen this episode, but Corey hadn’t, and I really wanted to see it again because it was poignant.
When the doctor and Amy encounter the artist, he is the subject of public ridicule, being thrown out of cafes for not paying his bills, his works of art seen as garish depictions in which no one is interested. The appearance of the charming doctor and his companion provide a nice distraction for van Gogh (as an American, I am so used to Gogh being pronounced as go, so it was unsettling to hear the British pronunciation rhyme with cough, as in goff), who happens to be seeing invisible monsters.
Turns out, the monster, a Krafayis, is just as real as the other things that torture the artist. In the ensuing battle with the monster, Vincent accidentally kills the Krafayis while defending himself. But as the doctor, who realizes that the creature is blind, comforts the dying creature, the visibly stricken Vincent comments that the creature was only afraid and frustrated, feelings with which the artist can empathize.
But the part of the episode that I really liked the best was when the doctor and Amy took Vincent into the future so that he could see his paintings hanging in the Musée d’Orsay (I will go there one day) and to hear an art scholar (Dr. Black, played by the wonderful Bill Nighy) praise the artist by referring to him as “the greatest painter of them all” and “one of the greatest men who ever lived.” A stunned Vincent cries tears of joy and hugs and kisses the confused scholar.
The doctor and Amy had hoped that by affirming Vincent’s talent, that they might be able to keep him from the despair that drives him to take his own life a few months later. Of course, it doesn’t work. But during the episode, to hear the Vincent character speak about beauty and color so passionately is incredibly moving. I know: I’m a sap.
I have always loved van Gogh’s paintings, the vibrancy of the colors, his choices of subjects. But it has always been the brush strokes that have always fascinated me: they are almost ferocious, as if he couldn’t put the paint to the canvas fast enough or hard enough. What is must have taken out of him each time he created a canvas awash in color and a beauty that he saw, and how it must have devastated him that no one else saw it.
A tortured mind and a tortured soul who produced such immense beauty.
More later. Peace.
Music by Don McLean “Vincent (Starry, Starry Night)”
I Know My Soul
I plucked my soul out of its secret place,
And held it to the mirror of my eye,
To see it like a star against the sky,
A twitching body quivering in space,
A spark of passion shining on my face.
And I explored it to determine why
This awful key to my infinity
Conspires to rob me of
sweet joy and grace.
And if the sign may not be fully read,
If I can comprehend but not control,
I need not gloom my days
with futile dread,
Because I see a part and not the whole.
Contemplating the strange, I’m comforted
By this narcotic thought: I know my soul.
True Pathway of Life by Feathered Tary (Flckr Creative Commons)
“Sometimes in life, from out of a myriad of prosaic decisions like what to eat and where to sleep and how to dress, a true crossroads is revealed. In these moments, when the fog of relative irrelevancy lifts and fate rolls out a demand for free will, there is only left or right”. ~ J. R. Ward
My hearing with Social Security is coming up on September 16, and I believe that I am beginning to panic. After all, that hearing is going to be a live-altering event. I mean, if SS determines that yes, I am in fact disabled, then I go on their roster of disabled people. It makes it official—government official.
The fear of being officially classified as a nonfunctioning member of society is causing me to look at the job listings with George Washington. This isn’t the first time I’ve done this, wandering aimlessly through job listings, thinking about what I could do.
But time for total truth: Would I be able to do it—it being return to the job force full-time, rejoin the lot of functioning, productive members of society?I honestly don’t know, and probably wouldn’t know until I tried. But the catch 22, the big iron in the works, so to speak, is that if I tried and found that I couldn’t do it, then what? Start the entire process again? Would that even be a possibility?
Hence, my panic. I remember my mother used to repeat a phrase when she was perplexed: “What to do? What to do?” Exactly. Précisément.
One day Alice came to a fork in the road and saw a Cheshire cat in a tree. “Which road do I take?” she asked. “Where do you want to go?” was his response. “I don’t know,” Alice answered. “Then,” said the cat, “it doesn’t matter.” ~ Lewis Carroll
A person could go mad in the face of such a conundrum: choose to act, and the possible failure has innumerable ramifications, but choose not to act, and the acquiescence may lead to the ultimate loss of self.
Search your soul . . . Let your conscience be your guide . . . In the end, you’ll do what’s right . . .
Really? Seriously? Being in this position make me realize acutely why some people consult psychics, have their palms read, have a Tarot card reading: Just tell me what’s going to come, and I’ll know what decision to make.
Sorry, but no. Back to that whole free will concept: Each individual possesses the ability to control his or her fate by choosing a course of action from among alternatives; whether or not free will is connected to moral responsibility depends upon the individual. That being said, the concept of free will implies being responsible for one’s actions as a result of being accorded the freedom to choose.. However, as most philosophers point out, the concept of free will is illusory in that whether or not the individual succeeds in carrying out actions decided upon depends on a number of factors beyond that individual’s control.
Or at least, that’s how I perceive it to be.
“Although every man believes that his decisions and resolutions involve the most multifarious factors, in reality they are mere oscillation between flight and longing.” ~ Herman Broch
Stair Pathways on Hillsides of Valparaiso, Chile
The sticking point for me, then, is that if I do what I most want to do, that is, try to go back to work, possibly work on another degree, then I am subjecting my family to risk. That and the fact that I decide, but many factors out there loom beyond my control.
The positives of trying to go back to work:
Improved self-worth from feeling as if I am doing something productive
Increased family income, thereby helping to move us out of this never-ending miasma
Having health insurance paid for by the company instead of self-paying
Depending more on myself to get things done
Possibly feeling better when my mind has other things on which to dwell
The negatives of trying to go back to work:
Working again and finding out that my body cannot tolerate the activity
Not being around full-time for Brett while he is beginning college, or being available to my family on a full-time basis
The costs involved in going back to work: purchasing another vehicle, travel, wardrobe
Having to go out on disability again and possibly not being able to get coverage
Having to pay back debts that were forgiven when I went on disability
I did not put having time to write on either of these lists as my experience in the past few years has shown me that I will write whether or not I have the time depending on my need to say something. In all of the time that I have been out on disability, I still have not put together my book, which is what I said that I would do. That in itself is telling.
“The truth is that our finest moments are most likely to occur when we are feeling deeply uncomfortable, unhappy, or unfulfilled. For it is only in such moments, propelled by our discomfort, that we are likely to step out of our ruts and start searching for different ways or truer answers.” ~ M. Scott Peck
Pathway bridge in Saharna Moldova, by Guttorm Flatabo
As some of you may realize, I write my way through, the logic being that as I put the words to page, my mind processes and sifts, allowing me to arrive at some kind of logical conclusion, and if not a conclusion, then at least a moment to pause. Having written about decisions countless times, I can say that at this moment, I am not more certain as to what I should do than when I began this post.
No great truth has come to me. At least, I don’t believe that it has. I heard a homily or proverb one time that went something like this: If you toss a coin in the air to help you make a decision, pause as the coin is in the air to reveal to yourself which outcome you were hoping for. Kind of like truth in a fortune cookie.
I know what I want to do, but so many things make me afraid to take this route, not the least of which is how much pain I am in from concentrating so hard on getting these words out.
Best five out of six . . . any words of wisdom would be appreciated.
“There are no prescriptive solutions, no grand designs for grand problems. Life’s solutions lie in the minute particulars involving more and more individual people daring to create their own life and art, daring to listen to the voice within their deepest, original nature, and deeper still, the voice within the earth.”
“Iris,” by George Lawrence Bulleid (date unknown, watercolor)
“Blue oblivion, largely lit, smiled and smiled at me.” ~ William R. Benet
What a strange, strange day. I slept about an hour during the night, then another hour around 8 this morning. The migraine began around 4 a.m., creeping behind my eyes then gradually exploding in my head.
I tried to go back to sleep but became distracted in trying to find a replacement cpu cooling fan for my computer. Had a fruitless conversation with an HP representative who told me that he couldn’t tell me how much the part would be unless I bought a new service contract or a new computer . . . Right . . .
Slept again from about 2 to 4 this afternoon. Ah, the rich pageantry of that is my life. The sweet, sweet irony of being me: I need to see my pain doctor to get something to sleep, but I cannot see my pain doctor until I can pay out-of-pocket for a visit since my insurance situation is more convoluted than ever, but we don’t have the money for an out-of-pocket visit, so I will continue to be at the mercy of my insomnia, which exacerbates my migraines, which means that I need to see my pain doctor.
On the other hand, Corey is scheduled for 74 hours this work week. He will be lucky to work half of that. Such is the reality of depending upon boat schedules.
“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes “Awww!” ~ Jack Kerouac
So here are some random musings:
“We the people” seems to be pretty straightforward. It doesn’t say “we, the white people.” It doesn’t say “we, the rich people.” It doesn’t say “we. the religious people,” and it sure as hell does not say “we, the straight people.
The Dems really need to grow a spine, and it needs to be soon. Being the party of passivity is just as bad as being the party of no.
Majority rule does not necessarily equate to the best rule. Often, the majority comes from a place of racism (separate but equal), sexism (women do not need to vote), and fear (all Muslims are terrorists).
Tradition does not truth make. For example, a traditional marriage in this country used to be between opposite sexes of the same race. Anything else was seen as straying from the norm. Caucasians married Caucasians, and persons of color married persons of color, and never the twain shall meet. If this tradition had remained unchanged, I never would have been born.
“They hang there, the stars, like notes on a page of music, free-form verse, silent mysteries swirling in the blue like jazz.” ~ Donald Miller
A few tidbits from the outrageous:
A woman in Cleveland, Ohio discovered that her husband married another woman by viewing a FaceBook page that featured over 200 photographs from his other wedding. The husband, John France, claims that his marriage to Lynn France was “never valid” so he was not cheating. Whether or not Lynn France already knew about the marriage before the FaceBook discovery as John France claims is moot: He filed married with the IRS . . . My guess is that Lynn France does not want to play Farmville with her husband’s wife.
A man in Atlanta, Georgia called a Wendy’s to complain, not about the food but about the small take in the cash drawer. Seems he wasn’t satisfied with the outcome of his robbery.
A woman in Gaithersburg, Maryland was sprayed with human semen. Police have since learned that more people were attacked. Things that make you cringe and say eww . . .
Shanon Marketik, 38, is a former Miss USA who, it seems, has fallen on hard times. So hard that she had to steal over $90 in Oil of Olay beauty products from a Texas Target. I think that it’s all of that aerosol hairspray that pageant queens use: It eats their brains.
In Snohomish, Washington, a teen found a wallet beneath the cushions of a couch when he was searching for his cell phone. The wallet, which contained $650, belonged to a woman who had lost the wallet during a 2005 party. The woman was found via FaceBook, so maybe that cancels out the bigamist.
“The touch of an infinite mystery passes over the trivial and the familiar, making it break out into ineffable music . . . The trees, the stars, and the blue hills ache with a meaning which can never be uttered in words.” ~ Rabindranath Tagore
Monet’s Pool by Ron Jones
Some parting words:
I wish that I could peer into the future to see when (if) things will begin to get better. It seems that not only are our lives in perpetual chaos, but so are the lives of so many other people, and so is this country. It’s hard not to be disheartened.
Summer storms remind me of my father.
I spent yesterday searching online for temporary guardianship forms for Alexis. Her friend Jennifer is not getting better. Actually, she is getting worse. The prognosis is not good, and everyone feels absolutely helpless. None of the five tumors in her head and on her spine are operable. It’s such a sad, sad situation. Please keep good thoughts.
How does a young woman reconcile herself to the idea that she may not see her 30th birthday, that she may not see her son reach his teens, that she may never leave the hospital?
Situations like Jennifer’s remind me to cherish my children (who are no longer children). Life is so fleeting and unpredictable, much like the nature of water itself, which can appear blue and calm in one moment and then can turn into a churning black in the next. Nothing is certain. The only thing that is forseeable is the unpredictability of fate.
It is now three hours later than when I first began. Outside it is pouring. The words did not come easily today.
More later. Peace.
Eric Clapton Unplugged, “Tears in Heaven”: Beautifully heartbreaking
“A liberal is a man or a woman or a child who looks forward to a better day, a more tranquil night, and a bright, infinite future.” ~ Leonard Bernstein
Still feeling puny. I didn’t sleep well last night (as usual), but it was particularly trying: sleep one hour, awake another hour, sleep one hour, and so on. Around 4 a.m. I got on the computer, thinking that I might post, but instead I looked for images and quotes. Thinking that I had done enough to tax my tired brain, I went to bed. Six a.m. awake. Seven a.m. awake. Corey arrived home from work around 7:30, and I was still awake.
Maddening, quite maddening.
Anyway, Tuesday afternoon. The sun is shining intermittently. The Jack Russells are asleep beneath the chair, and Tillie is trying mightily to get Brett to play pool ball with her.
Speaking of the Jack Rusells, Alfie, the smallest dog in the house, has begun to do something new: For the past three or four weeks, he has taken to sleeping with his head buried in my shoulder and his body pressed against my side. It’s quite cute, actually, except that I feel obligated to remain in the same position while he snores quietly into my ear.
Still no joy on finding the part for my computer, which I don’t quite understand. I mean, it’s an HP. The part had to come from somewhere, so why can’t we find it? It’s a right-wing conspiracy; that’s what it is.
Or at peace,
More people die
Of unenlightened self-interest
Than of any other disease.” ~ Octavia E. Butler
Speaking of right wing and things that I don’t understand, Fox Not-the-News won the coveted first row seat vacated by veteran UP reporter Helen Thomas. Why? How? Is the White House so afraid of Fox that they will capitulate to them in the hopes of better coverage? Not going to happen.
Unbiased coverage is one of the most basic tenets of journalism. Report the news. Don’t comment on the news. That being said, political reporting is an entirely different beast. Everyone has an opinion. Reporters interview other reporters for commentary. I can deal with this as long as the facts are correct, as long as those commenting do not play fast and loose with truth.
Of course, this cannot be said of Fox, which consistently plays with the facts, makes huge gaffes (mixing up Shirley Sherrod for Maxine Waters anyone?), and takes things out of context. Truth is completely insular, presented as something elastic to be stretched and shaped depending on whim. This is not journalism, nor is it news. So why then reward them with a seat at the table?
I am increasingly disappointed in this administration’s lack of balls. Obama came roaring onto the scene, full of good ideas and better oratory. But once in office, it seems that he lost at least half of his fire. I mean geez, he has a Democratic Congress and he still cannot get anything done because of his need to be liked by everyone, or so it seems. Granted continued obstructionism from the right doesn’t help, but it’s not the only reason for the lack of progress.
Obama was elected on a platform of change, and yes, there have been changes. But the Republicans are threatening to reverse those changes if they retake power, and it seems that everything coming out of this administration is transitory, sort of like cotton candy. I’m waiting for the Dems, especially the administration, to realize that they have some advantages before they piss them away this November. I fear that it will be a long wait.
“Politics: ‘Poli’ a Latin word meaning ‘many’; and ‘tics’ meaning ‘bloodsucking creatures.'” ~ Robin Williams
Speaking of (yes, I know that I’m repeating this phrase) things that I do not understand: supporters of Arizona’s immigration policy continue to act as if America sprang up as a populated nation, instead of emerging from generations of immigrants from all over the world.
What confuses me about this issue is the Constitution. Well, not the Constitution itself, but the right’s continual shift on said document. I mean, the tea baggers and their fanatical female trifecta Sarah Palin, Michele Bachmann, and Sharron Angle constantly preach on strict adherence to the Constitution. Yet as a result of Arizona’s xenophobia regarding all things Hispanic, Republicans such as Senate Minority Leader Mitch McConnell (R-Ky) are coming out in favor “rethinking” the 14th Amendment, which grants citizenship to anyone born in the U.S.
According to the Huffington Post, in addition to McConnell, “Sens. John Kyl (R-Ariz.) and Lindsey Graham (R-S.C.) have all called for re-thinking the 14th amendment (to one extent or another). And as a Democratic source points out, back in April 2008, Sen. David Vitter (R-La.) introduced a bill that would have required at least one parent to be a legal resident in order for their child to be granted U.S. citizenship.”
Which is it: strict adherence or adherence only when it suits the platform?
“Education should prepare our minds to use its own powers of reason and conception rather than filling it with the accumulated misconceptions of the past.” ~ Bryant H. McGill
Finally, I found a wonderful paper on political misconceptions written by Brendan Nyhan, a University of Michigan political scientist. The paper was referenced in an article written by Marty Kaplan, Director, Norman Lear Center and Professor at the USC Annenberg School.
Kaplan’s article, “The Best of All Possible Americas,” discusses the intimidation of the free press we once knew by right-wing pressure groups. As I mentioned above, instead of reporting the facts, journalism has morphed into a deformed entity; as Kaplan states, the media has become so afraid of being labeled “lamestream” and “liberal” that “the job of fact-finding has been replaced by the grotesque practice of “balancing” charges with countercharges.
Nyhan’s report, “When Corrections Fail: The persistence of political misperceptions,” analyzes why people continue to believe things that they think are true (WMD’s, anyone) even when presented with facts to the contrary: “Corrective information in news reports may fail to reduce misperceptions and can sometimes increase them for the ideological group most likely to hold those misperceptions.”
Take, for example, those who continue to insist that the president is not a U.S. citizen (aka birthers) even when presented with evidence that he is. The insistence on continued belief is strengthened by ideology. In other words, facts do not necessarily change a misinformed individual’s mind, especially if that individual is politically partisan. Truth does not always out.
Why is this important? Well the misinformation being dispersed by outlets such as Fox is taken at face value by certain segments of the population because this misinformation reinforces beliefs that are already held. This information, whether or not factually valid, is ingested and remains solidly embedded in those who believe it even when faced with factual corrections. And—and this is the most important point—those armed with this misinformation vote.
Where do you go when the night has been too long and unkind? Who takes your hand when you reach out in the darkness? Who will be there when you awaken after your dreams have taken you to places you never wanted to venture? Are these questions for you then?
Who will come for me when I call? Have I expended all of my chances to beckon unto me those who once may have attended unto me but are lost to me forever? I will not turn my head in shame this time, I promise. No more consolation prizes.
My eyes grow so weary: My soul has forgotten grace. The soul should never be without grace, the heart without memory and time. Memory then, is what saves us, what brings us back from the edge, what supplants those who chose to leave and those who are taken with things left undone. My father is in the night sky, the summer storms, the bold flashes of light just beyond the horizon. My daughter is in the mountains, the moss-covered hillocks and crevices, the natural running springs and waterfalls. My grief is invisible to all but me, a constant flame in my heart.
Doubts do not disappear when the stars reveal themselves. They are only cloaked temporarily in the sounds of dew on grass and moonbeams. At dawn, the dream ends the same. Truth, after all, is bitter root, mandrake, and hemlock. Only the hardiest of fools will take truth as a mistress—fools and children who have yet to forswear everything for a lie, and those who are lost already.
I will not treat you unkindly if you promise to love me. The heartache we will share together. I will follow you, yet do not desert me alone in the dark or in places unrevealed. Shadows can consume me and leave me concealed in desolate alleys, waiting for the moon’s pale light to illuminate the path home.
Shall we ponder tomorrow, you and I? Will we believe that we can stay here forever, on this carousel, the golden ring continually eluding our grasp as haunting pipe music plays in the background, and our painted horses, frozen in place, more like us than we care to see? My love, will you remember me? Will you come for me at journey’s end?
So who then shall hear your thoughts in the darkest heart of the night? Who will clasp your hand when you reach out for comfort? When you confess all that has caused you doubt and fear, where will you find comfort? Where will I? In the sounds in the night, after all?