I have been writing clumsy, ugly prose for an hour. I am not functioning this morning. I went to a small party at my neighbor's house last night and was introduced to a new scotch on top of what I had brought. Then, back home, I chatted with my New Old Friend deep into the night. I'd been looking in an old hard drive earlier in the day for some pictures from the past to illustrate my tale of adolescent fear and loathing, but I came across scans of old letters and cards between Skylar and myself scattered throughout too many poorly named folders and sub-folders. That rabbit hole was deep and full of tunnels. I forwarded many of the scans to her. We had much to say.
Another half hour of writing here just went into the trash. Clumsy fanboy writing like some Knight of the Round Table chasing the elusive Holy Grail. Knight Errant, perhaps. This is just to say. . . I don't know. . . it won't come out right this morning no matter how much I write. I have to give it up. Maybe later, after sleep, food, exercise, I can articulate something coherent. But how do you write about such things without seeming to feast at the Beggars Banquet? It is not Heloise and Abelard exactly, but. . . you know. . . hardship and the idol of romantic love. . . .
All in all, life is just a giant void against which we heap our varied experiences. Like one of Philip K. Dick's science fiction replicants, we live by hopes, memories, and dreams. I dated a woman who burned old photographs and destroyed old letters. To me it seemed strange. . . blasphemous. When she left, she said, I would no longer exist. I'd be gone forever, written out of memory. And that is exactly what she did.
Maybe it is better than being despised I guess. Or reminded of your shortcomings. It is far better to know that someone has always had your back no matter the circumstances, no matter the disagreements, someone who is even enamored by your flaws.
all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.
e.e. cummings. I can do no better this morning.