Often, in a moment, I will smell in my sweat my maternal grandfather, and recall other smells - cigarettes, wintergreen - and be happy in ways that I am not ordinarily happy. One has holes in their sweater now, one's shoes are perched upon fragmented soles.
And I remember walking in Burlington when it rained and when it snowed. Roses for sale by the cashier which seem sad to me, oddly lost in plastic to me, and yet somebody must have bought them, somebody somewhere made happy by them.
Rattlesnakes in New England.
The remaining snow freezes, making the outside appear oddly lunar, and a sense of play arises that is otherwise missing. Were the handguns really about protection from bears or was something else going on?
Turning from the Lord.
A blind cripple in me offering itself to be martyred which I have so far managed to avoid doing. Some photographs we frame, others we forget. Tell me again about unconditional love.
It begins with kisses - which are not a form of teasing but gathering - and it ends in her mouth, unless she chooses otherwise. My teeth hurt after, another self-inflicted penance nobody asked for. Begin - or end - what exactly?
"There is no otherwise" says the one for whom there has always been at least one otherwise and sometimes several.
Helen Schucman cleverly obfuscating, leaving the rest of us to untangle her Platonic Jesus-y skein.
Cloudy skies again, just okay again, this again.
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