I Stand in a Corner Watching

To call anything harmonious is an assessment, yet happiness is not imaginary: be not deceived. Without icicles or raindrops or quartz or dew or sunlight, who would have dreamed the idea of prisms?

All night strong winds battered the old parsonage, windows rattling in nineteenth century frames, and yet we slept soundly, folded into one another like loose scraps of cloth in Chrisoula's "et cetera drawer." To lay down and gaze at the sky and realize one is simply seeing home another way - that joy.

I pat the old man's shoulder in lieu of a hug and later wish I'd risked the hug, asking internally will I or am I that kind of lonely forever. A blonde woman in tie-dye dances close to me where I stand in a corner watching Jeremiah hunch over his guitar getting the solo just so and the distraction, while inevitable and possibly even on some level invited, displeases me in a religious way.

"Wanting anything to be other than it is is a form of violence" is a form of violence. We talk quietly in the foyer of the old church, preparing to go deeper into something real come Spring.

The many ways she risks - and also fails to risk - Kenya. Gendlin on low idle, a sort of mental soap I use to now and then remember my body knows things and so oughtn't be ignored.

In a dream, I stepped through a window into crystalline clarity, only to see yet another window opening unto another crystalline clarity opening unto yet another window endlessly. "Death is the end" strikes me as an error though I can't always say what kind, let alone how to fix it.

Walking after midnight on Main Street, turning onto dark side roads going all the way into towns in which I am a stranger. Notice the themes, let them teach you what to write, and always write for the one who notices.

Working the sourdough so that later Chrisoula can make her famous pizza, frying bacon and onions in oil before adding homemade bone broth and split peas, frying chicken with chilis, all before allowing myself to write, this. Mornings the horses are waiting vs. mornings they linger in the run-in.

The facet is judged by other facets which together are the whole but judgment is not rendered moot or unhelpful thereby. So it is settled then: we will grow old together, we will build a secret Vermont by hand and bury it in the forest, and when we are both dead we will live there happily, each the other's help-meet.