Don't the sun look angry through the trees?

I started out with something. And then it became something else, and then it became several somethings else, and then I just hit escape and had several shots of Hershey's syrup, straight up.

Today is one of those days when I think that something interesting is going to happen. That's not always an exciting thing, for "something interesting" does not always translate into "something good." It could be that I'm going to have to ignore every single instinct for self-preservation today, and say what's REALLY on my mind to the people who sit above in judgement.

It's a truth to power thing today, people, and if I don't word it correctly, much could be taken from various parts of my anatomy.

Nah. It won't be that bad. I just......need......to word it......correctly.

But, actually, I want to send this out to my friend Gert. It's a passage from one of my favorite books, STILL LIFE WITH WOODPECKER, by Tom Robbins. I hope it makes sense within context.

"Consider a certain night in August. Princess Leigh-Cheri was gazing out of her attic window. The moon was full. The moon was so bloated it was about to tip over. Imagine awakening to find the moon flat on its face on the bathroom floor, like the late Elvis Presley, poisoned by banana splits. It was a moon that could stir wild passions in a moo cow. A moon that could bring out the devil in a bunny rabbit. A moon that could turn lug nuts into moonstones, turn Little Red Riding Hood into the big bad wolf. For more tan an hour, Leigh-Cheri stared into the mandala of the sky. "Does the moon have a purpose?" she inquired of Prince Charming.

Prince Charming pretended that she has asked a silly question. Perhaps she had. The same query put to the Remington SL3 elicited this response:

Albert Camus wrote that the only serious question is whether to kill yourself or not.
Tom Robbins wrote that the only serious question is whether time has a beginning and an end.
Camus clearly got up on the wrong side of bed, and Robbins must have forgotten to set the alarm.
There is only one serious question. And that is:
Who knows how to make love stay?

Answer me that and I will tell you whether or not to kill yourself.
Answer me that and I will ease your mind about the beginning and the end of time.
Answer me that and I will reveal to you the purpose of the moon."


In the words of Clemo:

Love is love.
It cannot be analyzed, categorized, defined, or filed.
It can be the fire that comforts, or the fire that rages.
It can restore. It can destroy.
It can last.
It can fade.

It can't be forgotten, or ignored.
It can happen in a second, over a period of years.
Or never.

It can appear in the face of a friend.
It can appear in the face of a stranger.
And it can appear, when you least expect it, in the face of an old photograph, long forgotten.
But you will not recognize it until it wants you to.
And it may not want you to until it's too late to do anything about it.

And love is not something you do something about.


The trick?
Inhale.
Exhale.
Repeat.

Have a good day, all.