Tuesday, March 5, 2013

Yet Another Teacher

Void where prohibited. The snow bore me, the clouds parted, and a handful of star sparkled like silt in Spring. We are making progress, we are getting somewhere.

With time comes healing and also insight. Yet there is perhaps another way to see it. I mean Macbeth as a play about gender and power.

One dreams of the impersonal, one is photographed without clothes. Anger is a response to fear which is a response to guilt which is a response to what? Since Gary Gilmore I have imagined - and been aware of me imagining - that I did it.

You write and write and so I did. Life steps almost - ah, almost - straight. At a break in the trees I refused yet another teacher and kept going.

One thousand or so miles away you cannot sleep and I worry. The weasel crossed the yard - flowed, really - like a sentence with too many verbs. Movement matters.

Kindness matters. Half dozen phone calls, some returned, some not. I understand why he had to go and still wish somehow he might have chosen differently.

The couplet, the Capulet. And we are back where it all began.

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