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Sunday, August 3, 2014

something unimportant for Sunday morning

Sadly, what I write is of lmited importance.  Even were it to be important, time would cause it to fade and crack; eventually if NLT or some other concept does not extend the future forever, and forever means very little to Non-linear time, then time itself would run out for everything that we do.  Even now scientists predict a bleak future, extinction for man, destruction for all of his works, most of them going in a few thousand years, the rest disappearing in a blink of the celestial eye.
The moment, which is all your mind can hold I'm told, the one thought of the one moment, whether a thought of the past or the future or, best of all the present, is what matters.
I'm sitting under a cloudy sky, drinking Ethiopian coffee (for more on that you can read the first battle of wwii which is supposed to be edited into the first battlefield of wwii but who knows when that will be finished or even where it is today, alas the ficklness of secretaries; especially those who are not secretaries.)  It is neither hot nor cold yet.  The other night when I was walking alone but for my dog, surely the happiest and least intelligent dog on the face of the earth, it felt a lot like today and though the sky shown through the clouds the humidity was so high that it began to rain lightly, the moisture held by the nearly cloudless sky just too much to withstand the relentless pull of gravity.  I suspect, the moisture being as high right now and the sky being considerably more cloudy it will rain today.  The roof is on, only minor pieces need to be added.  The rusty aluminum and a few old felt or shingle pieces are scattered in the yard waiting to be picked up.    The trees are festooned with pink plastic bags as if for some long forgotten pagan holiday to the invention of the roof, perhaps the gay roof.  There is no metal on the new roof except for thse parts that extend above it.  The new things are composites which are unable to rust in the next 30 years, things that will remain for some time, the nicest part of the house now being the very top.
Now it only waits for someone to buy this house, to have this vast empty lot to do with as they will; probably to cut the trees back so it is less a jungle and more a yard, so they can again see the roofs of the neighbors' houses, so they can free me a little more by taking one more thing from me.
I thought I loved this house, but it was the solitude I loved.
Perhaps the love of a person is really the love of something different; it cannot be solitude, it would have to be the love of a feeling.
I think there are different types of love.  I imagine one where it is impossible to love someone if you love someone else.  I have that problem.  I want to love the one I'm with, like the ancient song wisely recommends, but it is not possible perhaps.  You see this in romantic comedies, you think to yourself, I would be in love with the other person, the one you know the main actor will certainly end up with,  easily enough, it would allow me to be reborn, you think.  And yet, you instinctively sympathize with the character.  Why?  Because you know viscerally if not in your conscious mind, if you were lucky enough, or unlucky enough to experience this, you would understand.
The kind of love I am talking about is something more than infatuation, or the mistaken belief that you might die alone or that you were running out of options or time, that you felt too old or too young to start again.  It has to have an unselfish element, a belief that in some way you might be able to save the person you love and maybe save yourself.
For some love fades faster than for others.  For some destiny seems to pull them harder.  I hope you woke up in the arms of someone you think you love today, perhaps someoe who you do love.  For me, I woke today grasped by that dizziness that seems to come and go.  Perhaps it was all the swimming I did the last 3 days in a despearte attempt, a failed attempt, to exhaust my emotions, to outrun the ghost of love that will not die, that haunts my days and nights and asks me to say things that I cannot say, at least not yet.

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