It's late and I should try to get some sleep. Emmylou is upside down and conked out here on the couch as I finish this and watch the next season of The Sopranos.
Jeff Nunokawa had another great post so I will share it and say goodnight.
5002. "love those for whom the world is real" (James Merrill)
However seldom in my line to feel,
I most love those for whom the world is real ("The Book of Ephraim", The Changing Light at Sandover).
This is really something, a girl said last night, about the strange ceramic clown that has been part of my household for years. As alarmingly self satisfied as the clown looks, I just know that he's anything but. (I assume it's a he, though I can't say for sure: its gender does not submit to simple identification.)
If my young guest and her friends hadn't been considerate enough to celebrate his existence, I just know that my poor clown would have spent the night (as he has spent many nights) in a state of darkness about his very being.
That clown is a parable: Think how often you and I cast about in shadows, unsure of the reality of our own being, no matter how game our face, like so many sad and lonely clowns or clouds or crowds, until someone quick and bright comes along to draw it out.
Where would we be without those special someones to confirm our especial existence?
Lucky for us, they're no further away than the next real surprise.
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Note: . . . a world which has meaning only for a consciousness (Hazel Barnes, "Humanistic Existentialism and Contemporary Psychoanalysis", in The Literature of Possibility, A Study of Humanistic Existentialism)
I most love those for whom the world is real ("The Book of Ephraim", The Changing Light at Sandover).
This is really something, a girl said last night, about the strange ceramic clown that has been part of my household for years. As alarmingly self satisfied as the clown looks, I just know that he's anything but. (I assume it's a he, though I can't say for sure: its gender does not submit to simple identification.)
If my young guest and her friends hadn't been considerate enough to celebrate his existence, I just know that my poor clown would have spent the night (as he has spent many nights) in a state of darkness about his very being.
That clown is a parable: Think how often you and I cast about in shadows, unsure of the reality of our own being, no matter how game our face, like so many sad and lonely clowns or clouds or crowds, until someone quick and bright comes along to draw it out.
Where would we be without those special someones to confirm our especial existence?
Lucky for us, they're no further away than the next real surprise.
---------------------------------------------
Note: . . . a world which has meaning only for a consciousness (Hazel Barnes, "Humanistic Existentialism and Contemporary Psychoanalysis", in The Literature of Possibility, A Study of Humanistic Existentialism)
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