(no subject)
I took a trip, over a week, with one Rose Macaulay, in search of "The Towers of Trebizond" . . . I saw them briefly, in the flash of a dream, and in the circumnavigation of a world I will never encounter. I fell in love with the eccentric British upper class that flocked, spies and book signings and evangelism and schizophrenic camels and all, to Anatolia and the Levant, bringing into my imagination strange cities and otherworldly encounters with people who never existed or, if they did exist, are dead and forgotten. The digressions involving politics, the conflict of religion and agnosticism (Anglicanism plays a secondary melody to the plot of Aunt Dot, Rev. Piggs, and the narrator), and the underlying undertow of romance and high espionage form . . . Something inspiring and indicative of a lack in my life.
Looking at the scar on my ring finger, how odd that it should form an arc where legendary bands of gold should be, a numbing memory of self-condemnation made years ago. It still hurts, and to type on a keyboard or write long-winded accounts in the black, leathery journal leaves a tingle, a prick of guilt. Would my anger really be so great, so loud, so repressed, that it would seek this outlet, stitches and violence and blood and embarrassment?
I succeeded in registering my newly-acquired car at the S.O.S. yesterday, a $61 affair (I think I got off lightly compared to others) with a license plate and sticker, legality and legitimacy, a somewhat-trite claim of responsibility and "progress" on my individual path.
. . . I do miss, however, the glorious passivity and introverted nature of public transportation, how one simply enters, sits or stands, and becomes immersed in a self-contained universe, a world some folks fear and others could never understand. I especially miss the voices.
Looking at the scar on my ring finger, how odd that it should form an arc where legendary bands of gold should be, a numbing memory of self-condemnation made years ago. It still hurts, and to type on a keyboard or write long-winded accounts in the black, leathery journal leaves a tingle, a prick of guilt. Would my anger really be so great, so loud, so repressed, that it would seek this outlet, stitches and violence and blood and embarrassment?
I succeeded in registering my newly-acquired car at the S.O.S. yesterday, a $61 affair (I think I got off lightly compared to others) with a license plate and sticker, legality and legitimacy, a somewhat-trite claim of responsibility and "progress" on my individual path.
. . . I do miss, however, the glorious passivity and introverted nature of public transportation, how one simply enters, sits or stands, and becomes immersed in a self-contained universe, a world some folks fear and others could never understand. I especially miss the voices.