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Unsent Letters - Craters of the Moon
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Unsent Letters
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Ephemeral Love
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Miscellany
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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...
A Waning Moon...
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Miscellany
- Hits: 2022
A waning moon outside, the children in bed, and my work is done.
The fruit flies have evolved, there's a swarm of them in the bathroom - perhaps I mistook the compost for their home, maybe the workmen downstairs have left a body...it's beginning to resemble something out a Damien Hirst exhibition.
There's a Mouse in the House
Which is odd, it's a ragged old mouse, long tail, dirty coat, but it made it's presence known almost immediately after I moved in.
Which is odd, because I've had a mouse before...
Before moving to Cochrane, in my Calgary apartment, as something for the children to marvel at, I caught a baby mouse on a rare jog and brought it home. Leaving it in a shoebox, there was no way it could escape...
But it did, and for a month I saw nothing of it, and thought that it had met it's end in a box of detergent, or behind a bookshelf someplace.
It didn't. And from time to time I'd see it, leaving it scraps of food on the counter, see it crawl through the drawers, on the ledge above the fireplace, find stores of macaroni and seeds, little mouse turds masquerading as berries in the blueberry pancakes.
We tried to catch it a few times, always in the summer, to relocate it back to it's field before winter came. It wasn't interested. And so it became a part of the family.
When we moved to Cochrane I searched long and hard for it, hoping to trap it and release it. Not a sign, it had vanished, even moving the fridge, it's favorite hiding spot, no mouse to be found.
In Cochrane the children and I missed it, wondered as to it's fate, if the next tenants would be as tolerant as us...
But in Cochrane there were signs as well, a few months in, chewed paper began turning up in an old hoosier I had brought with me, then little piles of cat food, hidden away in corners. Perhaps the mouse had packed itself along?
We never saw it there, little wonder, we had 2 cats in the kitchen. But there were the occasional droppings found in the carpet, the hidden stashes of nuts and food gathered from floors and cupboards.
And moving again, this time my belongings packed for me and left in a garage, a new place, and a mouse.
It strains credulity that this could be the same mouse, it would be almost 4 years old now, very old for a mouse. But a loyal mouse, following the steady supply of crumbs left by the children, a feast for a plague of mice, for one mouse a kingdom.
I like to think it's the same mouse, when I see it steal out from behind the fridge, a couple of times I've caught glimses of it's tail under the bookshelves in the office, it's family now. Our mouse.
Late to the Post
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Miscellany
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A little late to the post this morning, apologies to all but I've been working (as I noted elsewhere, earlier on) on the journal of my summer vacation to Idaho.
Which, at already 10,000 words was looking done to me, and so I began to organize it, rearranging thoughts, events into the narrative order that would serve them best, removing bias and opinions, formating text, and I found that in the course of my narrative, 10, 000 words, I haven't even made it to Butte Montana.
Which, to explain, as you haven't read it yet, I haven't posted it, puts me a long way from being done.
I've thought of serializing, posting it a page, a post at a time, because, really, who would read it all at once anyways?
But I'm meticulous, thorough, and it' not just the story of a summer vacation, it's the inevitable course of events, the predictable end to an amazing relationship, and I want it to be precise, exact, I want it to be, well....
Perfect.
And as I write it I recall those moments before the end, those many rare and perfect moments, and wonder how to braid them in; because, in the end, that is what's worth remembering, but maybe that will have to be another project. A series of posts filed under questions & ideas..., or song cycle of poems...
In other news...
How about those Conservatives?
And this morning, up at 6:00, a full 2 hours before the dawn, washed the dishes, (a 4 day heap), emptied the garbage, took out the compost.
The compost was a bit of a job, sitting under the sink, too full to fit any more in, but becoming necessary to get it out of the house, fruit flies actively evolving, flying into the office while I work, each generation larger and more caffeinated than the last. Until finally, when they reached the size of small wasps and I was suspecting them of organizing their intelligence, I took the bucket and dumped it in the yard.
A steaming heap beside the fence. I need a shovel and rake, these are other things that need to be done...the yard has filled with twigs from the willow, the leaves I'm happy to let feed the lawn. A trip to Cochrane yesterday - the rural thrift shops are best for these sorts of things, turned up nothing. This thrift shopping should be a seperate series of posts, weekly finds posted with photos, a sales section for those pieces I thought I needed and later wondered what I was thinking... (Anyone need an AKAI MG1212 Studio Mixer in working condition?). Off topic, below find a photo of the nothing I found at the thrift shop yesterday...
The phone rings...
It's Canada Safeway - my LAGOSTINA Cookware set is in!! I won! I won! The boy will be able to give his mom a brand-new cookware set for Christmas.
On that note:
I asked if I'd won the car. Now, this, after all, was the prize I was going for. I don't need or want a new cookware set, any old pot or pan will serve me fine. Given my cooking skills it would be a little like serving a hamburger on a Wedgewood plate. But I do need a new car. And I have refrained from checking the results of their contest, which ended (I believe) October 4th, but may not in fact end until October 20th. The underlying theory behind this runs parallel to Schrödinger's cat- by not knowing I may have won, but by checking I may confirm that I lost. Ignorance preserves the possibility...
Idaho
I'll have to start posting this in series. Tonight, perhaps, if not certainly by the weekend.
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