'I look in the mirror and see someone who is not myself'
110-A, home and heartache, is no more. Sold it off today. Wearing my pragmatic hat: you know it had to be done. But when did the inevitability of something stop humans wishing it wasn't so, that some other kind of life could continue, behind the mirror's silver? But if truth be told, or at least some of the truth be told, then there's a tangible sense of relief about getting this out of the way, since it's been dragging on for ages...
Getting rid of the guard was a nightmare. I've never seen anyone so crestfallen; one would have thought it was his house. He did his best to fleece me but luckily the cavalry (in the form of the Colonel) was around to help. Some unsavoury talk about "these people" and how they only understand one language (the whip or the rod, I suspect..this isn't a point Wittgenstein quite got round to). Anyway, sod the socialism, the guard had been running a brothel in my absence (yes, I know what you're thinking: why didn't he tell me?!).
The last day, the last hour, try and muster some nostalgia for Christ's sake! One last inspection of the rooms, holding the brief memories of each room, as if one could take with you only one from each. The palm of your hand on the wall (is that what cave art was really about?). The sky greying over. Less than 12 hours before dear, dear Mr. P. dying a few streets away. Alzheimer's is a terrible, terrible way to go...Jesus!
...
Get the deal done and get the hell out of here. The place and the memories are crumbling at an alarming rate. There's no-one around. Not a soul who knew me here. You meet the President of the Society. He is unshaven and has oily hair, a double chin..about your age, give or take. Younger, definitely younger. Bags under his eyes. Just by looking at him you'd think he was a drunk or a poet. Turns out that he was actually very religious, with a sparkling wit. A real, three-dimensional character who connected with everyone he talked to. My own voice sounded false in front of his. Maybe I was just tired, sleepless from the night before, or maybe I just got a glimpse of my own superficiality. I see someone else, but maybe that is me. There's a confidence one gets from living in the world and from living well. Not quite a deepening but a widening of the soul's capacities. And if wide enough, God knows who will stumble your way... Academia, on the other hand, encourages triviality and narrowness.
I could not sleep last night, suddenly I could write my name...
Sign here. And here. And here. Then blue thumbprints, as if I'd been stunned into ignorance...Mark your loss with smudges of blue. Head north, to the green ice. Or think of a green shade and a book. Still, after all this time I remember more than I forget...remember to say I, to say you.
You feel you've come to some great creaking inner turning point, a solstice of the heart...
The sight at any moment
is as complete as the heart is
Negation and logic keep at bay, though. Find the still point in your hand, your thoughts, the years blowing through you. By what light are we known if not those of our loved ones. Here, at 110-A, I saw no image, no reflection. There is a silence when it comes to the things I know. Whose hand plucks us from the darkness, mirrors our unknowingness...
...
You place your fingers over the black 110-A sign outside for one last time. Actually, it was just 11 since the '0' had dropped away, just leaving a barely recognizable circle of dust on the white wall. Zero, a double absence, then.
There are no more mirrors in 110-A. Oh, I know, others will go up in time and it's wrong of me to not wish the new people all the happiness in the world. You drive by the house-from a distance- 40 minutes later and out of the corner of your eye spot them moving furniture already. Three, four people around the main gate, others inside. Already the business of life continues, things move on. This is the world. This is the bridge. Don't build a house on it the sufis used to say. People come and go.
Nothing last for ever.
But I will always love you.
110-A, home and heartache, is no more. Sold it off today. Wearing my pragmatic hat: you know it had to be done. But when did the inevitability of something stop humans wishing it wasn't so, that some other kind of life could continue, behind the mirror's silver? But if truth be told, or at least some of the truth be told, then there's a tangible sense of relief about getting this out of the way, since it's been dragging on for ages...
Getting rid of the guard was a nightmare. I've never seen anyone so crestfallen; one would have thought it was his house. He did his best to fleece me but luckily the cavalry (in the form of the Colonel) was around to help. Some unsavoury talk about "these people" and how they only understand one language (the whip or the rod, I suspect..this isn't a point Wittgenstein quite got round to). Anyway, sod the socialism, the guard had been running a brothel in my absence (yes, I know what you're thinking: why didn't he tell me?!).
The last day, the last hour, try and muster some nostalgia for Christ's sake! One last inspection of the rooms, holding the brief memories of each room, as if one could take with you only one from each. The palm of your hand on the wall (is that what cave art was really about?). The sky greying over. Less than 12 hours before dear, dear Mr. P. dying a few streets away. Alzheimer's is a terrible, terrible way to go...Jesus!
...
Get the deal done and get the hell out of here. The place and the memories are crumbling at an alarming rate. There's no-one around. Not a soul who knew me here. You meet the President of the Society. He is unshaven and has oily hair, a double chin..about your age, give or take. Younger, definitely younger. Bags under his eyes. Just by looking at him you'd think he was a drunk or a poet. Turns out that he was actually very religious, with a sparkling wit. A real, three-dimensional character who connected with everyone he talked to. My own voice sounded false in front of his. Maybe I was just tired, sleepless from the night before, or maybe I just got a glimpse of my own superficiality. I see someone else, but maybe that is me. There's a confidence one gets from living in the world and from living well. Not quite a deepening but a widening of the soul's capacities. And if wide enough, God knows who will stumble your way... Academia, on the other hand, encourages triviality and narrowness.
I could not sleep last night, suddenly I could write my name...
Sign here. And here. And here. Then blue thumbprints, as if I'd been stunned into ignorance...Mark your loss with smudges of blue. Head north, to the green ice. Or think of a green shade and a book. Still, after all this time I remember more than I forget...remember to say I, to say you.
You feel you've come to some great creaking inner turning point, a solstice of the heart...
The sight at any moment
is as complete as the heart is
Negation and logic keep at bay, though. Find the still point in your hand, your thoughts, the years blowing through you. By what light are we known if not those of our loved ones. Here, at 110-A, I saw no image, no reflection. There is a silence when it comes to the things I know. Whose hand plucks us from the darkness, mirrors our unknowingness...
...
You place your fingers over the black 110-A sign outside for one last time. Actually, it was just 11 since the '0' had dropped away, just leaving a barely recognizable circle of dust on the white wall. Zero, a double absence, then.
There are no more mirrors in 110-A. Oh, I know, others will go up in time and it's wrong of me to not wish the new people all the happiness in the world. You drive by the house-from a distance- 40 minutes later and out of the corner of your eye spot them moving furniture already. Three, four people around the main gate, others inside. Already the business of life continues, things move on. This is the world. This is the bridge. Don't build a house on it the sufis used to say. People come and go.
Nothing last for ever.
But I will always love you.
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