Muggy Sunday morning time for riddles. Haunted by this line in “The Stranger,” which I just reread: “For the first time, in that night alive with signs and stars, he opened himself to the gentle indifference of the world.”
As it should be, as it must be.
But then again I saw the cutest little puppy yesterday, held by a woman in a walker at the local high rise. He was in a halter and standing so tall and proud as if he owned the world. Which he did, which he should have.
I grow old, I grow old, I shall wear my trousers rolled.
The problem, at this point, is that the future is not the future of what might be. There might be second chances, but I’ll never have the body again to run a marathon, never the looming vistas to think of what might be.
From Graham Greene: “He thought peace the most beautiful word in the language.”
It is, it will always be.
Bastante. No tengo nada mas decir. Aun en Espanol, paz es la palabra mas bonita.
From “Notes from the Underground.” “I could never stand more than three months dreaming at a time without feeling an irresistible desire to plunge into society.”
Me too, this self-imposed exile seems a tad much….but then again I finally run across a striped maple and ooh and aahh out loud: the bark REALLY is green.
From Annie Dillard: “Like a bear who went over the mountain, I went out to see what I could see. And, I might as well warn you, like the bear, all I could see was the other side of hte mountain: more of the same.”
So, you’ll understand or you won’t, which is as it should be.