“Some people find fall depressing, others hate spring. I’ve always been a spring person myself. All that growth, you can feel Nature groaning, the old bitch; she doesn’t want to do it, not again, no, anything but that, but she has to. It’s a fucking torture rack, all that budding and pushing, the sap up the tree trunks, the weeds and the insects getting set to fight it out once again, the seeds trying to remember how the hell the DNA is supposed to go, all that competition for a little bit of nitrogen; Christ, it’s cruel”
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.”
Alex Rose: Magnificent parrot.
Mrs. Connelly: It’s not a parrot, dear. He’s a macaw. He’s named after my late husband, Richard. I’ve had Little Dick for forty years.[Alex and Nancy smile]
Mrs. Connelly: Now tell me about yourselves. What do you do, Allen?
Alex Rose: [Correcting her] Alex.
Nancy Kendricks: Alex is a writer.
Mrs. Connelly: Oh, a writer. I always thought of that as more of a hobby than a real job. I suppose I’m forgettin’ about Joyce.
Alex Rose: Joyce, James Joyce, of course. Wonderful writer.
Mrs. Connelly: He died drunk and penniless.
Nancy Kendricks: Well, Alex’s first novel was published in hardback, and he’s just about to finish his second one.
Mrs. Connelly: Oh, what’s it about?
Alex Rose: Well, I like to call it an urban epic. It’s about three generations of this family in New York that own a printing press, and I tell a story mainly about…
Mrs. Connelly: [Bored, cutting him off] Oh, that’s nice. Let me give you a refill. Big Dick had the taste, too. He was a seaman. The drink took him from me in 1963. We’d been married for 58 years.
You caught me. I can’t help but sneak a fag once in a blue moon.
It is regretful to say…as many have before me…I have squandered love. Held it too tight in the beginning and loosened my grip when I should have held on during the winds of change, in the end.
Sex is not love. Lust is not love. Kinship is not love. There is no better or for worse…for in love… that is always the case.
Love can lack in every department but one; the department of our honest souls. If in the fleeting glimpse of our life. The moments when health wanes. The days when the rain comes and stays for eternity…or at least a week. The slip of a tongue. The vacant glance of a stranger and the thoughtlessness of ‘it could be better’. Are all parts of myself in which I can only really allow one other to see.
Years spent with life and love as a concept like a timeshare in sunny climates…are perfect for love. For the trip back and forth may be filled with gale force winds and high climate drama…the road will still lead back to the ONLY ONE. The ONLY ONE with whom your soul has been embedded with all along.
AT LAST My love has come along My lonely days are over And life is like a song
Oh yeah yeah At last
The skies above are blue
My heart was wrapped up in clover The night I looked at you
I found a dream, that I could speak to A dream that I can call my own I found a thrill to press my cheek to A thrill that I have never known
Oh yeah yeah You smiled, you smiled Oh and then the spell was cast And here we are in heaven for you are mine…
I am Brangien [Brangaine] of Weisefort, Ireland, lady-in-waiting to my cousin Isolde, who became promised to King Marc of Cornwall. His nephew Tristan escorted us to England by ship. But Tristan and Isolde fell in love at sea. As ye may know, or will find out, they cite the philter they drank as the cause, over which I was supposed to keep vigil. I would like to share my perspective of how I have created good in the world through my herbs and observations. There is much to tell, including how I have adopted this odd language. In good time. My life is in God’s hands. –Inspired by the modern French translations of the Tristan and Isolde texts