May 4, 2012 § Leave a comment
Closer to the truth is that I’m not trying to get over Herself at all. I’m trying to savor the experience, distill it into a good thing. I’m trying to appreciate the meaning of her to me. I don’t like not feeling something when I think about her, so I conjure up a little tension. That’s what I miss. Which came first? the tension or the inspiration? Too close to call. Of the many moments and encounters with her, the fond ones are the far fewer than the tense ones. Sometimes they were the same. But I had only a few months to compile those before I drove the train off the track with, “You fascinate me.” I have spent much more time with the tension since then. Reminiscing on the fond moments–when the playfulness dancing in her eyes was an invitation to my grandest hopes–warms and softens my bitterness, but the proximity and quantity of the tension chills and hardens again. And here I am now, with a weary, uneasy truce, trying to reconcile and understand, trying to keep both the good and bad at bay, to keep passion’s colors from tinting the black-and-white of my comprehension. Then it all comes out the color of her hair.
April 3, 2012 § 2 Comments
Everything fades, our reluctance to let it notwithstanding. What I felt for Herself is less coherent, more formless than when I first put pen to paper about it. My interest in understanding the feelings is still strong, yet the subject has become practically atomized. Did I pick it apart down to those atoms? Did I analyze and scrutinize the meaning right out of my feelings? Did I find that they didn’t really mean much of anything, after all? Did their being unredeemed leave them without contextual foothold to meaning? She was the meaning. She’s faded. If she fades away she will have been only a waste of time, a long chapter with no book to show for it. No meaning. If she fades from memory, I hope it is from now to then, erasing the worst first and leaving me with those first feelings for her. Can it work that way?
January 20, 2012 § Leave a comment
To be touched by the faith of others is not hard for me. To find my own is another matter. I accept another’s belief that they will meet their dear-departeds in the afterlife even if I can’t believe in the same for myself. I must believe in something, though, to wake up every day, though many days the awakening is reluctant and seemingly without purpose. Hope, that vague stepsister of faith, is the best reason to roll out of bed, grumbling and stiff. There’s the hope of my daughters making the world a better place; the hope of catching up to and connecting with it myself. On good days hope can turn confidently toward faith, but it doesn’t stay; it doesn’t know how to behave itself; it wants too much and wants it now. Love is a bit much to ask for on a daily basis, and way too much to believe is imminent. Hope is a tease, faith is a ghost.