January 1, 2004

  • A faerie whispered to me: “See, love’s a purpling juggernaut.”


    “But I don’t know what a purpling juggernaut is,” I replied quite honestly.


    “Neither does anyone else,” she said.  And then flew away.


     


    There’s a larger stillness than one I’ve ever imagined.  Not in death does it commence but in a life foregone of hope.  Among the dead there’s (a sense of) some who were no more alive in life.  And so it follows, among the living, there are those already gone.  How sad.  Better to fly a kite or go fishing than to ever stop, stop wishing.


     


    It’s not a heat wave here in Dreamland, but it’s dry enough and warm enough (40s).  So I’ve resumed perching against an obelisk, popping a few tops, pecking at the keyboard, and allowing the sky to be Sky.


     


    What if, instead of your name on your gravestone when you died, there would be inscribed, magically and unmistakenly, the names of all who truly loved you once upon a time?  How small the print?  How large the rock?  How many would lie in unmarked graves?


     


    I detest my restraints.  Okay, a joke’s a joke.  Now please return my wings.

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