macaire

In the space that is my lack of desire to actually write something decent, with meaning, about my life story, I've gained back my desire to read the words of others.    And the desire to share them in this space.

I'm currently re-reading one of my favorite books, The History of Love by Nicole Krauss and loving the journey to and from work on the subway where my mind is empty and able to absorb her beautiful prose.

I'm also really interested in getting a few more tattoos done of my favorite quotes, poems, etc and have been spending a lot of time online looking at what others have had etched into their skin.  I came upon this quote in my travels and love it so.

“I must learn to love the fool in me – the one who feels too much, talks to much, takes too many chances, wins sometimes and loses often, lacks self-control, loves and hates, hurts and gets hurt, promises and breaks promises, laught and cries. It alone protects me against that utterly self-controlled masterful tyrant whom I also harbor and who would rob me of human aliveness, humility, and dignity but for my fool.”

- From Love me, love my fool: Thoughts from a psychoanalyst’s notebook by Theodore Isaac Rubin
 

It's Ours


there is always that space there
just before they get to us
that space
that fine relaxer
the breather
while say
flopping on a bed
thinking of nothing
or say
pouring a glass of water from the
spigot
while entranced by
nothing

that
gentle pure
space

it's worth

centuries of
existence

say

just to scratch your neck
while looking out the window at
a bare branch

that space
there
before they get to us
ensures
that
when they do
they won't
get it all

ever.

This poem really affects me.  I think this a lot of reasons why people have imagined and believed it and hoped for an after-life. How can something so intricate and glorious just end?

Perfection Wasted

And another regrettable thing about death
is the ceasing of your own brand of magic,
which took a whole life to develop and market --
the quips, the witticisms, the slant
adjusted to a few, those loved ones nearest
the lip of the stage, their soft faces blanched
in the footlight glow, their laughter close to tears,
their tears confused with their diamond earrings,
their warm pooled breath in and out with your heartbeat,
their response and your performance twinned.
The jokes over the phone. The memories
packed in the rapid-access file. The whole act.
Who will do it again? That's it: no one;
imitators and descendants aren't the same.

John Updike