The journey has been long. Many years ago I chose to follow a path beaten wide by the feet of starry eyed optimists who refused to accept reality and travailed on with heads held high, gaze centered on the glow of satisfaction that seemed to emanate from the sky. Yesterday I came to the end of the path and discovered a pile of pyrite. As I sit and think, a skill I long ago mastered although sometimes I just sit, I realize that it was not the goal that mattered, it was the journey. Each time the path dropped into a vale, my eyes rose to the heights of the other side and the glow of hope drew me on. I look back now and realize that it was not an arduous journey and as I look back I see all of the treasures that I have garnered along the way. The treasures number four. Three of them are named Kristen, Johanna, and Ericka. The fourth is peace with myself. I don't think that my journey has harmed anyone but myself but I am probably wrong about that. I have a facility for justifying myself that is boundless. During the journey there was always the warm glow of hope. I don't know if I have the strength of character to make the long journey back with the glow of hope shining only on my back. I will not stare at the horizon on the return journey. I will stare at the path, hoping to see a footprint with signs of hair on the bottom of the foot. It would be nice to know that someone who has given me so much pleasure in life had trod the same path. It is the same path, not the sane path. The path led to disappointment but not to despair. Back to the burrow but I am sure the glow of hope will still shine through the transom, not the glow of serenity but the glow of sirenity. Follow your dream for it is not the goal but the journey that is important. Reach your goal and sure enough, there will be the glow of another over the next rise. The joy of life is not an exhilarating apex, it is a warm satisfaction you cannot measure or touch but is still there. Thank you Pandora, you saved the best for last.
It is getting harder and harder to use this blog. I can no longer post anything, not even a title. The machine immediately disconnects me. Life has become very easy. The most terrifying thing that has happened to me in the last five years is that, four days ago, the batteries in the clicker went dead. What a tragedy and how alarming. Panic set in and after much scurrying I was able to get it working again. Life offers many dishes to please the palate of the brain. There is the antipasto of youth in which each morsel of learning and accomplishment lead to the crescendo of coming of age, a time when confidence and bravado lead to going out and challenging the world. There is the entree', in which the joy of finding a mate and beholding the miracle of birth several times, so satisfy the hunger of the the subconscious that the warmth of fullness spreads throughout the whole psyche. It is the best the menu can offer. There is the desert, with which the satisfaction of a lifetime of striving, finally sweetens the days in which the meal is coming to an end. The bliss of this time lingers and pleases. Then comes the check. It is time to pay for a lifetime of indulgence. The joints present their bill for years of toil and mistakes, the organs present their bill for a lifetime of gluttony, the brain presents its bill listing a litany of regrets. Life is a moveable feast. It moves through time, it moves through space from one place to another. It offers many choices from its menu. Sometimes it offers strawberries and cream and watching the newest of diners revel in it. Sometimes it offers roast turkey and watching the fruit of your loins beam in pride at its creation. Then there are the salad days, in which the legacies of your life leave a tip for the world. A tip that contains a seeking after the mysteries of life, a love for the more humble ingredients and appreciation of them, and the dressing of the gentle soul that has long been such a joy to watch. I am the oil of life. I tried mixing with water but , after much turbulence, there was no emulsion. I eventually found vinegar but life found a way to spoil the mixture. There was a sweetness to the vinegar but, underneath it all, there was still an acidity that made its presence known. Finally comes the bill that lists the serving of donkey fazoo that you never ordered. Even so, donkey fazoo probably isn't that bad if there are truffles to shave onto it and enough tarragon to change its hint of decay into an appreciation of its journey through the canal of life, much as I appreciate my own journey. It has been a good meal and I look forward to presenting my compliments to the chef. Perhaps hosannas are more traditional than compliments. I just hope that the chef I am presented to is not surrounded by the intense heat of the kitchen but is the pastry chef, surrounded by clouds of whipped cream and the golden glow of creme brulee'. Tell the valet that I will not need the car. The journey is over and I am spending the night with the wine steward. We are old friends.
No no no! You still need the valet! Damn you and your "family heritage" of dying by 60! There are blood pressure medications, man! You are a crusty old swamp Yankee, and you will live, whether you like it or not, until you are 96 years old.(At which point you will drop dead doing some kind of yardwork, scowling). And then we will hit you with the transmogrifyer gun...you will wear the wine steward out. He will be nodding off and glancing significantly at the door, realizing that he took on more than he bargained for.
I can't believe the problems you've had with blogger- is it the computer, or the site? It takes like 7 hours for me to download pictures, but otherwise it's ok...
Thank you for "Plenty o' people", I was really irate and mouthy, and Shaun has since expressed a frustration at not being able to go to school himself, he had a sickly child at 18, and has been working to care for a family ever since. I struggle with accepting the Southern way(women make poke sallet and wear their hair to their waists and never seek a better way of life other than to berate their husbands to make more money, he hadn't run into a situation like this before, where someone was dying to be independent, support themselves. So I'm sorry for painting him as the bad guy, he's just repeating what he grew up with,(and until recently, he believed that the Catholic Church was the embodiment of evil, but has come around on that.) Sorry about ranting, usually by the time I get to the computer, I've had a few beers. Like 5, or so. Love you, talk to you soon.
3 comments:
The journey has been long. Many years ago I chose to follow a path beaten wide by the feet of starry eyed optimists who refused to accept reality and travailed on with heads held high, gaze centered on the glow of satisfaction that seemed to emanate from the sky. Yesterday I came to the end of the path and discovered a pile of pyrite.
As I sit and think, a skill I long ago mastered although sometimes I just sit, I realize that it was not the goal that mattered, it was the journey. Each time the path dropped into a vale, my eyes rose to the heights of the other side and the glow of hope drew me on.
I look back now and realize that it was not an arduous journey and as I look back I see all of the treasures that I have garnered along the way. The treasures number four. Three of them are named Kristen, Johanna, and Ericka. The fourth is peace with myself. I don't think that my journey has harmed anyone but myself but I am probably wrong about that. I have a facility for justifying myself that is boundless.
During the journey there was always the warm glow of hope. I don't know if I have the strength of character to make the long journey back with the glow of hope shining only on my back. I will not stare at the horizon on the return journey. I will stare at the path, hoping to see a footprint with signs of hair on the bottom of the foot. It would be nice to know that someone who has given me so much pleasure in life had trod the same path. It is the same path, not the sane path. The path led to disappointment but not to despair. Back to the burrow but I am sure the glow of hope will still shine through the transom, not the glow of serenity but the glow of sirenity.
Follow your dream for it is not the goal but the journey that is important. Reach your goal and sure enough, there will be the glow of another over the next rise. The joy of life is not an exhilarating apex, it is a warm satisfaction you cannot measure or touch but is still there.
Thank you Pandora, you saved the best for last.
It is getting harder and harder to use this blog. I can no longer post anything, not even a title. The machine immediately disconnects me.
Life has become very easy. The most terrifying thing that has happened to me in the last five years is that, four days ago, the batteries in the clicker went dead. What a tragedy and how alarming. Panic set in and after much scurrying I was able to get it working again.
Life offers many dishes to please the palate of the brain. There is the antipasto of youth in which each morsel of learning and accomplishment lead to the crescendo of coming of age, a time when confidence and bravado lead to going out and challenging the world.
There is the entree', in which the joy of finding a mate and beholding the miracle of birth several times, so satisfy the hunger of the the subconscious that the warmth of fullness spreads throughout the whole psyche. It is the best the menu can offer.
There is the desert, with which the satisfaction of a lifetime of striving, finally sweetens the days in which the meal is coming to an end. The bliss of this time lingers and pleases.
Then comes the check. It is time to pay for a lifetime of indulgence. The joints present their bill for years of toil and mistakes, the organs present their bill for a lifetime of gluttony, the brain presents its bill listing a litany of regrets.
Life is a moveable feast. It moves through time, it moves through space from one place to another. It offers many choices from its menu.
Sometimes it offers strawberries and cream and watching the newest of diners revel in it. Sometimes it offers roast turkey and watching the fruit of your loins beam in pride at its creation. Then there are the salad days, in which the legacies of your life leave a tip for the world. A tip that contains a seeking after the mysteries of life, a love for the more humble ingredients and appreciation of them, and the dressing of the gentle soul that has long been such a joy to watch. I am the oil of life. I tried mixing with water but , after much turbulence, there was no emulsion. I eventually found vinegar but life found a way to spoil the mixture. There was a sweetness to the vinegar but, underneath it all, there was still an acidity that made its presence known.
Finally comes the bill that lists the serving of donkey fazoo that you never ordered. Even so, donkey fazoo probably isn't that bad if there are truffles to shave onto it and enough tarragon to change its hint of decay into an appreciation of its journey through the canal of life, much as I appreciate my own journey.
It has been a good meal and I look forward to presenting my compliments to the chef. Perhaps hosannas are more traditional than compliments. I just hope that the chef I am presented to is not surrounded by the intense heat of the kitchen but is the pastry chef, surrounded by clouds of whipped cream and the golden glow of creme brulee'.
Tell the valet that I will not need the car. The journey is over and I am spending the night with the wine steward. We are old friends.
No no no! You still need the valet! Damn you and your "family heritage" of dying by 60! There are blood pressure medications, man! You are a crusty old swamp Yankee, and you will live, whether you like it or not, until you are 96 years old.(At which point you will drop dead doing some kind of yardwork, scowling). And then we will hit you with the transmogrifyer gun...you will wear the wine steward out. He will be nodding off and glancing significantly at the door, realizing that he took on more than he bargained for.
I can't believe the problems you've had with blogger- is it the computer, or the site? It takes like 7 hours for me to download pictures, but otherwise it's ok...
Thank you for "Plenty o' people", I was really irate and mouthy, and Shaun has since expressed a frustration at not being able to go to school himself, he had a sickly child at 18, and has been working to care for a family ever since. I struggle with accepting the Southern way(women make poke sallet and wear their hair to their waists and never seek a better way of life other than to berate their husbands to make more money, he hadn't run into a situation like this before, where someone was dying to be independent, support themselves. So I'm sorry for painting him as the bad guy, he's just repeating what he grew up with,(and until recently, he believed that the Catholic Church was the embodiment of evil, but has come around on that.) Sorry about ranting, usually by the time I get to the computer, I've had a few beers. Like 5, or so. Love you, talk to you soon.
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