Hey wait a minute. When did I stop having fun? I need more fun.

Oh right, I'm writing an essay. Fun starts tomorrow.

Dreams of the Un Well

Late afternoon dream:

I am moving. I am moving into a large apartment on the ground floor. Outside is a Depanneur, a few tables where the store sells fruit and vegetables outside. Next to the store is a Brasserie. The apartment grows once I'm inside of it. It expands to fill several rooms, complete with 70's era furniture, about 6 sofas, and two wall mounted telephone boxes--one working, one not. I think this is cool.

I open the back door to see a homeless, drunk older man with a foolish toothless grin walking toward my place with several fishing rods in his hands. I am busy collecting several black kittens which have rested between my wooden door and screen door, as it is pouring rain. As the man approaches I have two choices: continue to rescue the hungry cats, or close the door and save myself from the mad fisher. As I contemplate my choice, to the left of me I glance a rather evil looking man with something in his hands--a weapon of some sort--and I know it's intended to kill me. Do they want the furniture? The kittens? The fisher man had a kitten in his coat. Not sure. I make a decision. My life or the kittens. I choose mine.

And then I wake. I blame my cold.

Compliments of Virginia Woolf

from The Death of the Moth

"Street Haunting"

"Is this the true self which stands on the pavement in January, or that which bends over the balcony in June? Am I here, or am I there? Or is the true self neither this nor that, neither here nor there, but something so varied and wandering that it is only when we give the rein to its wishes and let it take its way unimpeded that we are indeed ourselves? Circumstances compel unity; for convenience sake a man must be whole. The good citizen when he opens his door in the evening must be banker, golfer, husband, father; not a nomad wandering the desert, a mystic staring at the sky, a debauchee in the slums of San Fransisco, a soldier heading a revolution, a pariah howling with skepticism and solitude. When he opens his door, he must run his fingers through his hair and put his umbrella in the stand like the rest."

I have been collecting things. Little things, it may seem to others, should others be paying attention, but things nonetheless.

For instance this, http://www.scribd.com/doc/3536132/Street-Haunting-Virginia-Woolf. It is a story I would have read to you, and with much enthusiasm and affection toward the second hand books, those "wild books, homeless books." I would likely hear the sound I'd come to desire resonate softly in my ears, so close to you: acknowledgments in laughter.

There are moments, so many it seems, when I reach for the phone, attempt to write a letter, consider sending an email note... to share with you things we loved together, things I know would make you smile, warm your heart, save you a little--perhaps from yourself; that mountain you've climbed aimlessly, alone.

But I am stopped from further contact. My spirit, perhaps irrational spirit, desires union. My mind relinquishes power, and the entire anatomy of my heart demands to speak. But I resist still. For three years I understood your place and wanted so to exist there with you, and I am reminded in such moments of reflection that your path was only wide enough for one and that all along I'd been carrying you, and you me, and maybe we just tired each other out. I'd like to say that I have energy, courage and ambition for us both, but somehow I don't think that's the way it happens.

Each day is a challenge still. And yet, new friends are coming into my life: Woolf, Sontag, Burton, Sebald, O'Hara, Freud (okay, maybe not Freud)... Rimbaud. In old dusty covers, in newly bound ones, and in piles. All over my house.

Love.

I can't remember anything.
I can't remember everything.

Or

I can't remember everything.
I can't remember anything.

To which to woo.

How do I love thee?

I cannot count the ways. They are many woven spells of real moments shared between us. I miss you everyday. I regret the moments that will fade. I regret your decided absence. But I have purchased the most delightful bottle of mead that will see me through tonight's midnight oil. But know this. There aren't enough seas to distill into one drop the love I have for you.
That is all.



Tom Robbins sums up the love thing in ridiculous ways. Love will stay one day. Love will stay:

“Who knows how to make love stay?

Tell love you are going to the Junior's Deli on Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn to pick up a cheesecake, and if love stays, it can have half. It will stay.



Tell love you want a momento of it and obtain a lock of its hair. Burn the hair in a dime-store incense burner with yin/yang symbols on three sides. Face southwest. Talk fast over the burning hair in a convincingly exotic language. Remove the ashes of the burnt hair and use them to paint a mustache on your face. Find love. Tell it you are someone new. It will stay.

Wake love up in the middle of the night. Tell it the world is on fire. Dash to the bedroom window and pee out of it. Casually return to bed and assure love that everything is going to be all right. Fall asleep. Love will be there in the morning.”

I can formulate a simple sentence.

It begins with "I" and ends with "you."

Problem is, the middle has fallen out. What a problem.

Why don't you call
Why won't you contact me
Why have you disappeared
Why don't you care

Why
don't
you
love
me?



I feel ruined by this. Ruined by love. Is this what happens when true love is taken away?

I need to focus but can't find any stability. You said marriage would ruin you. Instead, you ruined me.

Living well is the best revenge....(fake it til you make it).

God grant me the serenity!!