Linking things is a human need, tenuous forces barely holding across synapses easily broken or lost, never to be replaced.
Ithaca is forever joined with Galway City, and I still have not figured out how to get the two people together as together is obviously what they should be.
She sits at a small table in the Commons, staring, waiting perhaps for a writer or lover who may be both, to come down from Cornell and join her, while Oscar waits patiently on a marble bench, hat by his side, telling Eduard of the woman he expects to arrive, trying to determine how to tell her that her friendship means everything, but it can be nothing more than platonic.
In my world they meet, she listens, fights back tears and promises always to be there, friends frozen in time and bronze.
It has taken 67 years, but I have finally arrived at what I want to do and be when I finally grow up, which should happen any day now, but please don’t hold your breath.
In this modern age, there is an ever present and growing need for euphemists, and I am perfectly suited for it.
Just this month I could have offered social distancing, not to mention those who now must shelter in place everywhere, and I’m working on several more, though I may no longer have time on my hands, lest I somehow become
collateral damage, for I know if I did I’d have to immediately wash them.
Early this morning the sky was pregnant with the rain that would inundate our afternoon, the sun a struggling visitor then, deciding the battle was lost and sliding away behind the clouds. It is afternoon now and our thoughts of the morning have been washed away, the plants no longer thirsty, risk drowning. We live in a world of never enough and too much, and we are allowed to complain about this day, which is the best reason not to.
There is a reason for all things and therefore there is a reason for this although we cannot begin to fathom what that reason could possibly be, which should be reason enough, for reason has a twisted soul: now playful, now angry, now vengeful in irregular turns without warning. The problem with seeking the reason for things is deeply hidden, and not as some imagine that it is difficult, no, the problem is that the search for the reason has its own reason needing to be discovered and so on recursively back to the Big Bang which still, to this day, has the ultimate undiscovered reason.
If I receive warm under robes to ease my winter meditation I will refuse them. If you ask me why, I will say I was born with such robes as I need. If you ask what I wore before birth I shall remain silent.
In the deepest winter there is no chill that can reach the empty mind for it is full of a warmth that cannot be replaced and one needs no shelter, for ashes know no temperature.
He screwed up his face into the scowl that fairly shouted to all, “Don’t Ask!”.
She knew better but knew also that she had no choice, “What’s the matter now?”
“It’s just,” he said, softening a bit, “that I so seldom get the weather I need, much less the weather I want, it’s never the sort I ask, no matter how nicely I put it.”
She threw caution to the wind, smiled and said, “It isn’t, of course, that the weather isn’t what you ask, it most certainly almost always is. It is simply that the weather is perfect and you always show up in precisely the wrong place to enjoy it.”
The space between want and need is at once a vast gulf and the width of the hair, much the same as that separating luck and greed. It is only in the eyes mind that the gap is insurmountable and we give up hope that those who live in the land of wants will ever look across the border of tears and truly see those who are doomed to toil endlessly in the land of need.
It is remarkably simple, really, a single circular brush stroke in a monochrome black on rice paper, always nearly perfectly round, never is the circle complete, always some small thing left wanting. You stare at it, more at the small gap, imagining it filled, hoping it cannot be for it holds out the promise that this moment is all that matters, that you are, at any moment, where you ought to be on your path, that thoughts of tomorrow is no more than an illusion , nothing other than the enso’s blank space.
It’s odd how your stature has grown as I dream of you occasionally staring at your yearbook picture. It was only four years ago that I knew you existed, but hadn’t the faintest idea of who you were, anything about your life, why you gave me up, and, therefore who it was I might have been. Now you are a selfless icon, caring more for siblings who needed education, at the immediate cost of your own, a child who needed two parents in a world that frowned deeply on anything less than a pair. Someday soon, I will visit your grave, place a small stone upon your stone, and a kiss, the closest I can ever hope, ever dream to coming to the face of my mother.