what is held, and what is not.

There's something about John Cheever's writing. Don't know what it is. The first entry on the first page of his journals goes:

"In middle age there is mystery, there is mystification. The most I can make out of this hour is a kind of loneliness. Even the beauty of the visible world seems to crumble, yes, even love. I feel that there has been some miscarriage, some wrong turning but I do not know when it took place, and I have no hope of finding it."

Why should anyone want to? Even though the clock can't be turned back there is some satisfaction, I guess, in working out how you fucked up. How to accept how, not necessarily know why, things turned out the way they did? And is acceptance about recognizing the unwavering reality of the presence of chaos, irrationality, randomness, and regret in a life? What do you hold on to, what do you let go?

You open The hare with amber eyes at random and come across these lines, faintly marked with a lead pencil:

'Its accomplishment requires a suppleness of the hand,..a preserving dexterity, a sacrifice of time'

"The deeper the experience of a moment the greater the accumulation of experience...the lived duree is not a question of length but of depth or density."

---John Berger.

What is held in common now? Not an image, a few scattered words, the oft-repeated stories or laughter...the tone of voice, the loving gaze with a tilted head, the silence between us, that covers what we know to be true. The days, the hours under the sun. How these intimate acts of memory tell of our humanity! The clouds float onwards, the contrast of dark grey and pure white unreal, they roll on past brilliant green tree tops, over empty, sleepy suburban streets, creating sudden shadows in mid-morning kitchens as kettles come to the boil unattended and the news of the world crumbles all around you. The rag and bone shop of the heart remembers. And forgets. The accumulation of small things, the misplacing. That, too, is only human. Some things can be given away for free, others have a price. Much has been lost. You point to a clock. Little r extends her finger, mimics surprise, and repeats the word. Clock. But she won't tell the time.