This last time coming back to Florida felt different. It felt like coming home. And it's never been that way before. I don't know what that means, but I'm not trying to figure it out either.
I have been rather blissful lately for reasons that I cannot understand nor even attempt to communicate. Admittedly, the past month or two have been a bit of a blue period for me, again for reasons that I cannot touch or see. The weight came and left without a greeting or farewell. It laid still at night, silent but looming. During the day it made itself known only by casting everything in translucent light. And then it parted, and left in it's wake the visibility of thousands of reasons to smile.
It's something simple, whatever it is.
The simplicity of God. His Love.
The simplicity of breathing, of music, of words.
Of life.
I'm aware of the complications of all these things, especially the first and last, but I'm not thinking about them for a change. That's one reason to smile.
I'm reminded of something Kurt Vonnegut's uncle told him: "I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim, or murmur, or think at some point: 'if this isn't nice, I don't know what is."
I've found myself thinking that about a lot of things lately.
I'm finding myself wanting to say I Love You to so many people and things.
I love you.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
a poem and some cuteness
My mother recently gave me a book of poetry by Pablo Neruda called Winter Garden. It was an unpublished collection found on his desk after his death. I was thumbing through it on the plane ride home, and must have read this one four or five times before turning the page. I love it, though have no words to say why...
The Egoist
Nobody is missing from the garden. Nobody is here:
only the green and black winter, the day
waking from sleep like a ghost,
a white phantom in cold garments
climbing the steps of a castle. It's an hour
when no one should arrive. Just a few drops
of chilly dew keep falling
from the bare branches of winter
and you and I in this circle of solitude,
invincible and alone, waiting
for no one to arrive, no, nobody will come
with a smile or a medal or a budget
to make us an offer or ask us anything.
This is the hour
of fallen leaves, their dust
scattered over the earth, when
they return to the depths of being and not being
and abandon the gold and the greenery,
until they are roots again,
and again, torn down and being born,
they rise up to know the spring.
Oh heart lost
inside me, in this man's essence,
what bountiful change inhabits you!
I am not the culprit
who has fled or turned himself in:
misery could not exhaust me!
Your own happiness can grow bitter
if you kiss it every day,
and there is no way of freeing oneself
from the sunlight except to die.
What can I do if the star chose me
to flash with lightning, and if the thorn
guided me to the pain of so many others?
What can I do if every movement
of my hand brought me closer to the rose?
Should I beg forgiveness for this winter,
the most distant, the most unattainable
for that man who used to seek out the chill
without anyone suffering because of his happiness?
And if somewhere on those roads
--distant France, numerals of fog--
I return to the extent of my life:
a lonely garden, a poor district,
and suddenly this day equal to all others
descends the stairs that do not exist
dressed in irresistible purity,
and there is the odor of sharp solitude,
of humidity, of water, of being born again:
what can I do if I breathe my own air,
why will I feel wounded to death?
Being home has been wonderful. My sister Colleen also flew in from Portland, so there has been lots of much needed quality family time. Tonight I was able to hang out with all three of my nieces, and my sisters new puppy. The cuteness of it all was almost unbearable.
I already know I'm going to be one of those dads who carries pictures of his kids with him and shows them to everyone he knows, all the time.
The Egoist
Nobody is missing from the garden. Nobody is here:
only the green and black winter, the day
waking from sleep like a ghost,
a white phantom in cold garments
climbing the steps of a castle. It's an hour
when no one should arrive. Just a few drops
of chilly dew keep falling
from the bare branches of winter
and you and I in this circle of solitude,
invincible and alone, waiting
for no one to arrive, no, nobody will come
with a smile or a medal or a budget
to make us an offer or ask us anything.
This is the hour
of fallen leaves, their dust
scattered over the earth, when
they return to the depths of being and not being
and abandon the gold and the greenery,
until they are roots again,
and again, torn down and being born,
they rise up to know the spring.
Oh heart lost
inside me, in this man's essence,
what bountiful change inhabits you!
I am not the culprit
who has fled or turned himself in:
misery could not exhaust me!
Your own happiness can grow bitter
if you kiss it every day,
and there is no way of freeing oneself
from the sunlight except to die.
What can I do if the star chose me
to flash with lightning, and if the thorn
guided me to the pain of so many others?
What can I do if every movement
of my hand brought me closer to the rose?
Should I beg forgiveness for this winter,
the most distant, the most unattainable
for that man who used to seek out the chill
without anyone suffering because of his happiness?
And if somewhere on those roads
--distant France, numerals of fog--
I return to the extent of my life:
a lonely garden, a poor district,
and suddenly this day equal to all others
descends the stairs that do not exist
dressed in irresistible purity,
and there is the odor of sharp solitude,
of humidity, of water, of being born again:
what can I do if I breathe my own air,
why will I feel wounded to death?
Being home has been wonderful. My sister Colleen also flew in from Portland, so there has been lots of much needed quality family time. Tonight I was able to hang out with all three of my nieces, and my sisters new puppy. The cuteness of it all was almost unbearable.
I already know I'm going to be one of those dads who carries pictures of his kids with him and shows them to everyone he knows, all the time.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
illegal cinema
Florida's crappy movie scene has caused me to resort to illegal downloads. I cannot tell you how many films that I've been dying to see have not been playing around here... not even in Tampa or Orlando! Crazy. So I pirated a copy of The Wrestler, and am about to pop it in. My first movie-going experience of 2009 was Doubt, which, honestly, might already have earned its right as the best of the year, it was that good. But I've been hearing a great deal of wonderful things about Aronofsky's latest, so I'll hold off on that judgment for the next two hours or so.
To any of you who have some moral discrepancy with such downloads: I sympathize, and will make up for it by paying to see it again in theaters next week when I make my way back up to my beloved northern State, where you never have to worry about whether or not a movie will be playing.
To any of you who have some moral discrepancy with such downloads: I sympathize, and will make up for it by paying to see it again in theaters next week when I make my way back up to my beloved northern State, where you never have to worry about whether or not a movie will be playing.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
writers block
It's been a really long time since I've written anything on here - over a month actually. I could list off a million reasons why I have taken this intermission, but I'll dispense with the pretense: I've simply been uninspired. I could also list off a million reasons why I've been uninspired, but I won't.
I think it's mainly because there is so much I want to say, but have no means by which to say any of it. And... I guess I'm not exactly sure what it is that I have to say. I've undergone a recluse from emotional expression, possibly from some sort of overload. It is as if for the past few months I've felt everything so acutely that my brain has taken refuge in numbness.
So I do not know what to say... but for some reason i miss you comes to mind.
That phrase fits like a jigsaw in the scattered pieces of my mind, but it doesn't complete the picture. It just rests atop the wreckage, and makes sense.
I think it's mainly because there is so much I want to say, but have no means by which to say any of it. And... I guess I'm not exactly sure what it is that I have to say. I've undergone a recluse from emotional expression, possibly from some sort of overload. It is as if for the past few months I've felt everything so acutely that my brain has taken refuge in numbness.
So I do not know what to say... but for some reason i miss you comes to mind.
That phrase fits like a jigsaw in the scattered pieces of my mind, but it doesn't complete the picture. It just rests atop the wreckage, and makes sense.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
we wanted to be the sky
Friday night I got out of work early with every intention of buckling down on that awful paper I have been putting off all week, but found myself just sitting back and listening to music in my apartment for a while instead. Somewhere during Colors and the Kids by Cat Power I was hit by a heavy dose of nostalgia. It literally shook me, it was such a heavy feeling. I reverted to my time in San Francisco, and felt again how small that city once made me feel. It was an odd sensation.
San Francisco made me feel very small, but not necessarily in a bad way. I would walk up and down those staggering hills with my headphones, marveling at the vastness of existence; the mechanisms of city life; all the strange characters - businessmen and businesswomen and bohemians and bums, who bump into but never see each other - the organisms of buses and and taxicabs, all the lights set on timers, illuminating that soft fog at night that floats in from the ocean. Everything was alive, in some way or another. And my little, lost self looked up and felt dizzy. I was simultaneously thrilled and terrified. I saw a sea of strangers and wanted to get to know them, but averted my eyes at all costs. Part of me lamented the lack of sodality, but another part really reveled in the ability to walk around, observing, without ever being noticed. And so I felt really small and insignificant, but oddly comforted in that at the same time.
It's how I feel sometimes when I take a solitary drive at night, cruising down dark roads absorbed in some musical moment. I imagine that I could just keep going, without any set destination, without any responsibility or ties. I could turn off my phone and slalom through flickering neon truck-stops, counting the deer-crossing signs, and wondering how long the moon will follow. Each passing road sign would be a reminder of the enormity of the world, each pause between songs a reminder of my seclusion. I'd smile. I'd cry. I'd eventually turn around.
So this burst of nostalgia caused a sudden urge to go for a drive. It was a short one, but lovely. The air felt nice, the familiar surroundings became new, strange, because they didn't matter.
After a while I ended up at Books-a-million, because bookstores are second only to joy rides (and possibly a good record store). I perused for an hour or so, fingering through pages, alone amongst a crowd of people.
But as usual that solitary joy was replaced by pining for company, and I soon found myself in the presence of some dear friends (Austin, Ashley, Dean, and Brandy), sitting in a dark room, each taking turns entreating something beautiful from the ipod plugged into the sound system. And then the tide of the evening shifted again, and I was carried to a birthday party of a new acquaintance, chatting it up with strangers. The conversations were not anything notable, but I was feeling unusually content.
And it struck me: I've been meeting some really great people lately, people who seem to see things in me that I am unable to see in myself. I've always felt that there was a giant misunderstanding in how people percieved me, as if my internal strife was reality and the external affability merely a mask. I'd regard any kind words with silent suspicion, feeling like some grave error was made. (I am reminded of that wonderful line in Juno: "I don't really know what kind of [guy] I am")
So much of my life has been spent averting my eyes, attempting to convey social grace while internally squirming. I'm done with that. I'm tired of it. I'm learning to allow people their conceptions, and in-turn allowing that to inform my own conception of myself (when appropriate).
I'm sorry I've averted my eyes from you. I'll figure it all out on my next solitary drive, and turn around like I always do, and never ride alone again.
------------
I feel like ending this with the lyrics to the aforementioned song, because they're so much better than anything I could write (though probably not as powerful without Chan Marshall's beautiful voice, so go out and buy the album).
It must be the colors and the kids that keep me alive,
'cause the music is boring me to death.
It must just be the colors and the kids that keep me alive,
'cause I want to go right away, to a January night.
I built a shack with an old friend,
he was someone I could learn from,
someone I could become.
Will you meet me down on a sandy beach?
We could roll up our jeans, so the tide won't get us below the knees.
Yellow hair, you are a funny bear.
Yellow hair, you are such a funny bear.
Slender fingers would hold me.
Slender limbs would hold me.
And you could say my name,
like you knew my name.
I could stay here, become someone different.
I could stay here, become someone better.
It's so hard to go in the city, because you want to say hello to everybody
It's so hard to go into the city, because you want to say hey, I love you to everybody.
When we were teenagers we wanted to be the sky
Now all we want to do is go to red places, and try to stay out of Hell.
It must be the colors and the kids that keep me alive.
Cause the music is boring me to death.
It must just be the colors and it must just be the kids,
that keep me alive on this January night.
Yellow hair, you are a funny bear.
Yellow hair, you are such a funny bear.
-Cat Power
San Francisco made me feel very small, but not necessarily in a bad way. I would walk up and down those staggering hills with my headphones, marveling at the vastness of existence; the mechanisms of city life; all the strange characters - businessmen and businesswomen and bohemians and bums, who bump into but never see each other - the organisms of buses and and taxicabs, all the lights set on timers, illuminating that soft fog at night that floats in from the ocean. Everything was alive, in some way or another. And my little, lost self looked up and felt dizzy. I was simultaneously thrilled and terrified. I saw a sea of strangers and wanted to get to know them, but averted my eyes at all costs. Part of me lamented the lack of sodality, but another part really reveled in the ability to walk around, observing, without ever being noticed. And so I felt really small and insignificant, but oddly comforted in that at the same time.
It's how I feel sometimes when I take a solitary drive at night, cruising down dark roads absorbed in some musical moment. I imagine that I could just keep going, without any set destination, without any responsibility or ties. I could turn off my phone and slalom through flickering neon truck-stops, counting the deer-crossing signs, and wondering how long the moon will follow. Each passing road sign would be a reminder of the enormity of the world, each pause between songs a reminder of my seclusion. I'd smile. I'd cry. I'd eventually turn around.
So this burst of nostalgia caused a sudden urge to go for a drive. It was a short one, but lovely. The air felt nice, the familiar surroundings became new, strange, because they didn't matter.
After a while I ended up at Books-a-million, because bookstores are second only to joy rides (and possibly a good record store). I perused for an hour or so, fingering through pages, alone amongst a crowd of people.
But as usual that solitary joy was replaced by pining for company, and I soon found myself in the presence of some dear friends (Austin, Ashley, Dean, and Brandy), sitting in a dark room, each taking turns entreating something beautiful from the ipod plugged into the sound system. And then the tide of the evening shifted again, and I was carried to a birthday party of a new acquaintance, chatting it up with strangers. The conversations were not anything notable, but I was feeling unusually content.
And it struck me: I've been meeting some really great people lately, people who seem to see things in me that I am unable to see in myself. I've always felt that there was a giant misunderstanding in how people percieved me, as if my internal strife was reality and the external affability merely a mask. I'd regard any kind words with silent suspicion, feeling like some grave error was made. (I am reminded of that wonderful line in Juno: "I don't really know what kind of [guy] I am")
So much of my life has been spent averting my eyes, attempting to convey social grace while internally squirming. I'm done with that. I'm tired of it. I'm learning to allow people their conceptions, and in-turn allowing that to inform my own conception of myself (when appropriate).
I'm sorry I've averted my eyes from you. I'll figure it all out on my next solitary drive, and turn around like I always do, and never ride alone again.
------------
I feel like ending this with the lyrics to the aforementioned song, because they're so much better than anything I could write (though probably not as powerful without Chan Marshall's beautiful voice, so go out and buy the album).
It must be the colors and the kids that keep me alive,
'cause the music is boring me to death.
It must just be the colors and the kids that keep me alive,
'cause I want to go right away, to a January night.
I built a shack with an old friend,
he was someone I could learn from,
someone I could become.
Will you meet me down on a sandy beach?
We could roll up our jeans, so the tide won't get us below the knees.
Yellow hair, you are a funny bear.
Yellow hair, you are such a funny bear.
Slender fingers would hold me.
Slender limbs would hold me.
And you could say my name,
like you knew my name.
I could stay here, become someone different.
I could stay here, become someone better.
It's so hard to go in the city, because you want to say hello to everybody
It's so hard to go into the city, because you want to say hey, I love you to everybody.
When we were teenagers we wanted to be the sky
Now all we want to do is go to red places, and try to stay out of Hell.
It must be the colors and the kids that keep me alive.
Cause the music is boring me to death.
It must just be the colors and it must just be the kids,
that keep me alive on this January night.
Yellow hair, you are a funny bear.
Yellow hair, you are such a funny bear.
-Cat Power
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
hopefully it occurs to me...
Because of a sudden and inexplicable burst of holiday spirit that came over me last night, I found myself craving a Christmas movie. So, after realizing that my dvd collection is severely lacking in holiday movies, I popped in Elf. I was really happy for a little while (the combination of Will Farrell and Zooey Deschanel is a force to be reckoned with in my consciousness), but then it finally dawned on me how much this Christmas is going to suck. I've been ignoring the fact, or at least not giving it much thought, that I'll be stuck in FL, by myself, working on both Christmas Eve and Christmas itself. This is a potent combination of terrible circumstances: no family, no snow/chance of snow/or even cold enough temperatures where you could make a fire and pretend like its snowing, and work. Blah.
It might be different if this was a job that I really enjoyed, engaged in. Don't get me wrong, I like my job, it's decent, and I'm good at it, but it's not exactly what I'm shooting for as a career.
So after a little solo pity party (which may have just continued in those last two paragraphs... sorry) I picked up the book I've been reading lately - that is, if you can call it reading; it takes me about fifteen minutes or more per page because it's so dense, and I'm not exaggerating, but that's a good thing, because it's fantastic - No Man is an Island by Thomas Merton, and got a much needed dose of perspective. The chapter is called "Sentences on Hope" and here's what I read:
"Supernatural hope is the virtue that strips us of all things in order to give us possession of all things. We do not hope for what we have. Therefore, to live in hope is to live in poverty, having nothing. And yet, if we abandon ourselves to economy of Divine Providence, we have everything we hope for... Hope deprives us of everything that is not God, in order that all things may serve their true purpose as means to bring us to God."
This kind of blew my mind. What we hope for we do not possess, so the act of hope, in itself, without fruition, is actually despondency disguised as a positive emotion, and the loss of hope is actually that which truly edifies, because it causes us to abandon ourselves to the economy of Divine Providence. Amazing.
This is not to say I have no right to be sad about this upcoming Christmas. I will still be sad. But this just gave me a little tap, reminding me of precedence.
And although I'm working all day tomorrow (Thanksgiving) there is plenty to be thankful for. Like this book I'm reading, with gems like this: "It is lawful to love all things and to seek them once they become means to the love of God. There is nothing we cannot ask of Him if we desire it in order that He may be more loved by ourselves or by others." And music. And friends, who hear that I'm working on Thanksgiving and send me text messages like this one: "Aw, well if you want a meal or leftovers or quality family time, my house is open :)" (Thanks, katie). And fresh air. And sweater vests. And corny movie moments making you tear up. And family. And love. And joy. And peace. And patience. And kindness. And goodness. And faithfulness. And gentleness. And self-control. And love. And love. And love. And the fact that all these things are available to us even when a potent combination of terrible circumstances converge. And that feeling of placing the last period on something you wrote and knowing that its true.
It might be different if this was a job that I really enjoyed, engaged in. Don't get me wrong, I like my job, it's decent, and I'm good at it, but it's not exactly what I'm shooting for as a career.
So after a little solo pity party (which may have just continued in those last two paragraphs... sorry) I picked up the book I've been reading lately - that is, if you can call it reading; it takes me about fifteen minutes or more per page because it's so dense, and I'm not exaggerating, but that's a good thing, because it's fantastic - No Man is an Island by Thomas Merton, and got a much needed dose of perspective. The chapter is called "Sentences on Hope" and here's what I read:
"Supernatural hope is the virtue that strips us of all things in order to give us possession of all things. We do not hope for what we have. Therefore, to live in hope is to live in poverty, having nothing. And yet, if we abandon ourselves to economy of Divine Providence, we have everything we hope for... Hope deprives us of everything that is not God, in order that all things may serve their true purpose as means to bring us to God."
This kind of blew my mind. What we hope for we do not possess, so the act of hope, in itself, without fruition, is actually despondency disguised as a positive emotion, and the loss of hope is actually that which truly edifies, because it causes us to abandon ourselves to the economy of Divine Providence. Amazing.
This is not to say I have no right to be sad about this upcoming Christmas. I will still be sad. But this just gave me a little tap, reminding me of precedence.
And although I'm working all day tomorrow (Thanksgiving) there is plenty to be thankful for. Like this book I'm reading, with gems like this: "It is lawful to love all things and to seek them once they become means to the love of God. There is nothing we cannot ask of Him if we desire it in order that He may be more loved by ourselves or by others." And music. And friends, who hear that I'm working on Thanksgiving and send me text messages like this one: "Aw, well if you want a meal or leftovers or quality family time, my house is open :)" (Thanks, katie). And fresh air. And sweater vests. And corny movie moments making you tear up. And family. And love. And joy. And peace. And patience. And kindness. And goodness. And faithfulness. And gentleness. And self-control. And love. And love. And love. And the fact that all these things are available to us even when a potent combination of terrible circumstances converge. And that feeling of placing the last period on something you wrote and knowing that its true.
Monday, November 24, 2008
go look at your eyes, they're full of moon
"Whenever the dog and I see each other we both stop where we are. We regard each other with a mixture of sadness and suspicion, and then we feign indifference. We walk past each other safely; we have an understanding. It’s very sad, but you’ll have to admit that it is an understanding. We had made many attempts at contact, and we had failed... And what has been the result: the dog and I have attained a compromise, more of a bargain, really. We neither love nor hurt because we do not try to reach each other. And, was trying to feed the dog an act of love? And, perhaps, was the dogs trying to bite me not an act of love? If we can so misunderstand, then why have we bothered to invent the word love in the first place?"
-Edward Albee, The Zoo Story
I had a nice little chat with Prof. DeBorde on friday afternoon. We talked a little bit about my performance of a scene from this play for Oral Interpretation class, which she had recommended to me heartily, saying "The Zoo Story! Steve, you should do it, you are sooo Edward Albee." Now, I had never read The Zoo Story before, but after finishing it I got all pensive, wondering why in the world she felt this was me. It's a bizzare play... very bizarre. I mean, it's genuis, I love it, but, it's twisted. Part of the reason I love Mrs. DeBorde is because she obviously really cares about her students. She takes the time to pay attention to you, and truly desires to know you as a person. And she's good at doing that. I think I can safely say she's my favorite teacher ever. Well anyway, we were chatting about this and that and she said that she thinks I should do some acting. WHAT? This class was really hard for me, because I'm not good with getting up in front of people... especially if I have to perform something. I was so nervous every time. But she said that she thought I had some natural ability to communicate, and that there was "rawness" in how I did things, which was effective. And some of my classmates seemed to think those silly performances were good too. It's amazing how different our own perceptions of ourselves can be from other peoples'. It's refreshing that it's that way, actually; encouraging, maybe. But I probably still won't be taking up acting any time soon... unless it's like what's on Mitch Hedberg's acting resume: "If I play pool, and I make a shot, I act like I'm not surprised."
At any rate. I've been thinking about The Zoo Story ever since I first read it a few weeks ago, particularly the above quote, and how complicated love can be. I think that's a good thing, love's complexities are beautiful... sometimes... right? I don't know. There's a paradox in my thinking here... because I also adore Neruda's picture of love:
I love you straightforwardly, without complexitites or pride
And so I love you because I know no other way than this:
where I does not exist, nor you
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand
so close that when you close your eyes I fall asleep
-Edward Albee, The Zoo Story
I had a nice little chat with Prof. DeBorde on friday afternoon. We talked a little bit about my performance of a scene from this play for Oral Interpretation class, which she had recommended to me heartily, saying "The Zoo Story! Steve, you should do it, you are sooo Edward Albee." Now, I had never read The Zoo Story before, but after finishing it I got all pensive, wondering why in the world she felt this was me. It's a bizzare play... very bizarre. I mean, it's genuis, I love it, but, it's twisted. Part of the reason I love Mrs. DeBorde is because she obviously really cares about her students. She takes the time to pay attention to you, and truly desires to know you as a person. And she's good at doing that. I think I can safely say she's my favorite teacher ever. Well anyway, we were chatting about this and that and she said that she thinks I should do some acting. WHAT? This class was really hard for me, because I'm not good with getting up in front of people... especially if I have to perform something. I was so nervous every time. But she said that she thought I had some natural ability to communicate, and that there was "rawness" in how I did things, which was effective. And some of my classmates seemed to think those silly performances were good too. It's amazing how different our own perceptions of ourselves can be from other peoples'. It's refreshing that it's that way, actually; encouraging, maybe. But I probably still won't be taking up acting any time soon... unless it's like what's on Mitch Hedberg's acting resume: "If I play pool, and I make a shot, I act like I'm not surprised."
At any rate. I've been thinking about The Zoo Story ever since I first read it a few weeks ago, particularly the above quote, and how complicated love can be. I think that's a good thing, love's complexities are beautiful... sometimes... right? I don't know. There's a paradox in my thinking here... because I also adore Neruda's picture of love:
I love you straightforwardly, without complexitites or pride
And so I love you because I know no other way than this:
where I does not exist, nor you
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand
so close that when you close your eyes I fall asleep
So I don't know. I think talking intelligently about love is an impossibly. It's too big a concept. Not that we don't try - I've had countless conversations with Ammi on the subject, and we're always trying to put our finger on something that just refuses to be pinned down. We end up speaking in for instances; real-life examples meant to be some kind of reasoning (which is actually quite odd considering our individual track records). These complexities seem to be popping up everywhere. From talking about it with friends to reading it in their blogs, I've noticed there's a great deal of disillusionment going around. Ammi's latest post talks about simplicity in this realm: that love either is, or isn't. Perhaps that's the case, but I'm thinking of Jerry and the dog, and their feigned indifference, and their miscommunication, and the fallibility of the word love, its smallness, and I'm thinking that maybe it's not always so clear, that people can't be so simplified. But perhaps I refuse to believe that it's that simple because of my own situation... yeah, that's a possibility. Lauri wrote about a suspicion, or rather, a disbelief in true love, to which I responded in polite disagreement, and quoted Joni Mitchell. Janice stopped believing in it, but has since rediscovered it.
I don't know, I don't know. It's complicated. It's simple. It hurts. It heals. I don't know.
I did say talking intelligently about love is an impossibility right?
Jerry and the dog never realize each others' love. They feigned indifference too long. Maybe the moral of the story is to be open, maybe that alleviates some of the complexity... maybe.
I wear my heart on my sleeve, I just roll it up a little.
I don't know, I don't know. It's complicated. It's simple. It hurts. It heals. I don't know.
I did say talking intelligently about love is an impossibility right?
Jerry and the dog never realize each others' love. They feigned indifference too long. Maybe the moral of the story is to be open, maybe that alleviates some of the complexity... maybe.
I wear my heart on my sleeve, I just roll it up a little.
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