Well, as promised, I am going back to my normal somber self, and, given that a large piece of me is scattered between here and the other sides of the country, it just goes to show that everyone returns to their core, no matter how strong, how well built, how protected, everyone returns to their nature, and it goes without much reward or gain to attmept to run around your life, so hell, you just go back to what you know, what you feel, and what it is you want...
These nights at home are long - but long in a good way, I see my two beautiful children, curled up on the couch with the television a little too loud, both tired and worn from a day of tickling in the grass, driving to loud music, a few soccer kicks, and a warm dinner - they are the ultimate in love - they are children, and they can see the world through perfectly blue and innocently brown eyes, and just laugh and be tired when the day is done. I hope they never lose that ability - that I guess, brings me to Cassanova, what a wonderful story of love and lust, being told by an old man recounting his pursuits - he may claim that he is recounting to protect the legions of youth that come after him, but he is a victim of much of what we all do - we shake off our nature, and begin to remember what it was we were like, and conform to what it is we think (or others think) we should be - repenting for a life of living when you give up on the living part, and fall into the memory part...and celebrate a life of remembering...I hope that I can stave that off for as long as possible - and continue writing about pursuits that are common and current instead of swearing to recount my exploits and brag about my past wins - I want to win and live now - I want to lose and love now, and seemingly want to avoid the memory part of story telling, and just write the story as it comes...I want my children to live with that goal as well - what is done, is done, and what we do in the next second is what shapes the first second of our lives. Consequences exist, but in all reality, this life is terminal - so why dwell...
Screen doors - I have one of those aluminum screened patios, and in Florida, it is a great thing to have - the six inch dragonflys buzz around it, the butterflies float outside of it, but most importantly the wasps and the mosquitos are trapped outside while you enjoy the breeze of the circular floor fan that dries the sweat on your back and cools the sticky late spring and summer days - the only thing is that there are about 40 holes in the aluminum support that holds the door up - and now there is just nothing left to screw into to - no solid place for a hinge or a chain to pull the door back, just a bunch of holes - the wind at night slams the door - sometimes, I look forward to that sound, the clap of metal on metal, and sometimes it frustrates me enough to take the old empty terra cotta pot that I use for rose fertilizer and wedge it under the door - granted, to avoid the noise and wedge the door open means the raccoons get into the patio and eat the cat food, but - much like the door, I guess just about every plan that we make usually has one or two holes.
I keep that screen door on my list of things to do - it is a little embarrassing when folks come over and see it, but for me, when I sit on the patio, it is what Cassanova seems to have lacked - he filled his holes with memories, and those patches seemed to be the temporary fixes he needed to share - me I don't want memories, I want tomorrows and todays and right nows...and the clanging of the screen door is just enough music for me to know that there is a rythm that I seek...
Until next time,
George
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