And the waning moon outside, and I'm not so much in the mood for ideas about math, physics, or the universe.
Too much whisky, I'll delete this in the morning, but these are remembrances of things past...
Music, loud, it suits the mood.
One thinks of Idaho, and one thinks of ways to have avoided it. The train wreck, the catastrophe, the pulling apart of continents...
It was unavoidable.
And one then thinks of the things one could do to try and salvage something from the wreckage, this was worth saving, on any level, but there is nothing. The rules would have to be rewritten, there would be aspects of our life that would be forever seperate, the children, the family, the friends, would brook no reunion.
Still, it's a waning moon and one thinks of solutions, secret lovers, confidantes.
She will not be faced with these issues, righteous in her indignation she will have moved on, be soliciting dates, online, searching once again for true love, for her it was not rare or uncommon, keeping herself distracted, busy, involved, I was the one who stuck around and so was worth trying, keeping, she will try again. For her love was not uncommon or rare, it was a state of mind, there was always the possibility of true love in the admiring glance or touch of strangers, she did not need to worry.
I have the expectation of symmetry, the childish belief that the rocket must fall to earth, that if it has failed we will meet and understand why, it is the childish belief in the just universe...
I love her like none will ever love her.
She will not find it more dedicated, exclusive, or constant, but these are not things she worries about yet. She will not find it more accomodating, eager or involved, but, again, these are not things that would concern her. There is the intrigue of novelty, the meeting of new men, the hopes that things will be new and different...
I found something different, but to explain it would take more time than I have. More time and sobriety, the moon is waning, 3 months now since I saw her last, a lifetime ( I don't count the passing of her in a Safeway, pretending not to notice), she has had plenty of admirerers and will find her match, not better but necessarily more compromising, and then maybe she will understand, and so it will pass...
Possessive and jealous, I found it charming, there was nothing to fear, she should have known, intuited, for a psychic, a witch, she misread every sign, a bump in the road was a catastrophe, a mountain a bump, she found shadows where none existed and light where existed only darkness, and I found it charming.
So many times I have wanted to drive out there and awaken her beneath her window, but it is not my place to apologize, I have nothing to say there, and as much as it kills me I must let it lie, let her understand. Yet still I want to shake her, show her the stars, explain to her what she should intuit in her soul, scream at her, express my rage in music, violent images, raging at what she has left behind and forsaken; but she will think it foolish, there will always be others...
And I've wanted to show her the moon, the northern lights, nothing that I see or hear has value unless I share it with her, she is the source of meaning and inspiration, if not love, what is there?...
The music mellows, tomorrow an early morning, volunteer work at the childs school, reading with the children, this I enjoy. More web work to be done. The mundane intrudes upon the divine, the small distractions saving me....
Still, one looks outside, smoking yet another of my final cigarettes on the porch, and one can't help wondering if she sees the same moon, wonder if she has yet understood anything, or if she has found "the one" yet, if not "the one" then another as good, and time passes. And I wonder how I can have been so betrayed, but it was to be expected, there were all of the omens and premonitions.
And, too late, we will run into one another, a year, maybe ten, but this is always the way, each of us with our dates, there will be recognition, perhaps idle chat, the play, the movie, the concert, the events but not the substance of our lives, perhaps by then she will have understood, but it will be too late and we will chatter briefly and move on, something lost, destroyed, something rare and precious crushed beneath circumstance and stubborness, adversity and convention.
I am drunk, tomorrow I will delete this... But in this there are ideas that could change the world...