He is fond of saying that he is the best thing since sliced bread.
There is so much wrong with that statement, even ignoring that he is the one who keeps repeating it.
If he were that great, and no one is rushing to suggest that he has even approached it, wouldn’t he want to be just as great as sliced bread?
And what sort of bread, that matters more than he realizes.
It’s one thing to be a good pumpernickel, or even a great Jewish rye, hell most would settle for a multigrain, but knowing him, he probably means Wonder Bread, and that is a low mark of which to fall painfully short.
We will always be friends, we said, probably half meaning it at the time. How many times have we said that or somthing akin to it, knowing that the promise to call, to stay in close touch, was at best half meant and almost certain not to come to any reality.
I have a catalog of friends, who I told I would never give up, distance notwithstanding, we all do, and mine is replete with both good and bad intentions, each and every one a failure.
I did not say this to my ex-wife when we divorced, and I must say that while I failed at the marriage, or so she said, I did not ever fail at not being friends after its end.
The first one felt right, there was nothing deeper considered, just that feeling that now, I know, anyone might have provided but then, it was something in a world of nothing.
The second, really, was certainly right, for life this time, the wisdom of a single failure enough to ensure success, and when it came apart thirty years later, it was apparent it was never right, just more than nothing.
This one is right, for it does not require feeling so, merely being in her presence, a completeness I never knew, which explains why this time nothing can get in the way of the ultimate everything.
It is a day set aside for resolutions although there is no reason you cannot make a resolution any day of your choosing.
Perhaps it is a day for those resolutions you might not otherwise make, the bold or daunting, more likely a day for the resolutions you know you will abandon as too hard or simply utterly impractical.
This year I have resolved not to engage in the annual ritual, the annual farce more accurately, and will achieve a long-held goal of conceding failure early, in a new year that will afford myriad chances to come up short.
And there is a hidden blessing in my newfound resolve to swear off resolutions, so take that old Epimenides.
My mother no longer speaks to me. It is not that she has been dead two years, that passage would hardly be an impediment for her. I would like to think she has nothing left to say, having said it all so many times in the past. Some say we will see each other again in heaven, but it is unclear which, if either of us, will be there, and I don’t look forward to once again being a child who can do nothing quite right enough for her, yet again, and for eternity, this time.
You must be home now, or somewhere you can answer my call, and the busy signal or disembodied voice, purporting to be you can only mean that this very moment if you are calling me the busy signal or disembodied voice purporting to be me is giving you a momentary frustration rivaling my own. This must be the state of the world for otherwise you failure to answer could mean but one thing, and I can no more accept the preposterous idea that you might actually be speaking to someone else rather than awaiting my call with bated breath, and certainly not that you are sleeping, your phone switched off, never mind that where you are, it is well past midnight.
The sun has slipped back into its familiar failure mode lighting the sky, seeming to set the trees aflame, but offering precious little warmth. It is just practice for the season we all know is lurking just beyond the horizon, beyond our too short sight. We hope not to be here to greet it, having fled south, escaped to a place where the sun maintains purpose, where it says lakes and ponds ablaze and we shield our eyes from its intense, overpowering presence.
He spends considerable time looking in the mirror trying hard to see what is there, to see inside himself, to truly see himself as he imagines others see him. The mirror denies him a static image, it is always shifting, and try though he might to grasp one single image he finds it impossible and always gives up in frustration. Still he tries again the next day, and the next after that, never attaining his desired objective. Ask yourself, what is his failure? If he would become the mirror, then, and only then, he might see himself, rather than a mere image on glass.
A reflection on case 125 of the Shobogenzo (True Dharma Eye)