Wisdom is the marrow -- and it's in the bones, isn't it?
Lovely. Thank you.
Ooh, that maggot business made me go, ooh, gross man, but the first few lines caught me big-time because today I talked (well in part) about how the dinner came together for Mrs. Ramsay after the candles were lit and she no longer saw the shabby room but the candlelit faces with the fruit centerpiece (also perishable) and I've been hypnotized all day by notions of reality and how everything that made the night a vision of a success was only a vision: the candles, the main course (ok, that's debatable), the engagement of the young people, the insincere efforts to engage. I am, of course, guilty of applying my own inner thoughts to whatever you've drawn out here.
That's part of what I love about these vague posts of yours, though. They obviously mean something specific to you but one can take something away that bears meaning on the private thoguhts/worries/compulsions/obsessinons, and don't you think that the best writing is just that?
Yes, what michelle said. I envy your ability to do that...
Wow!
You make this putrid image sounds so beautiful, so compelling.
This scene was etched into my mind and I had to return to read the words out loud.
But it's more than the words...
The little flickers of light - the grasping and desperate need to believe it is real, the striving and self-deception. Oh, how well I know my own game.
What happens? Do we become wiser, or do we just become exhausted from it all? (It doesn't matter, does it?)Finally we concede there is no way but to crawl back into our decay, accept it, work with it, love it and wait.
Oh, that imagery - so perfect!
Dale:
Wonderful update of Plato's famous allegory of the cave, without the comfort that he could take in rock.
Yes!
JW = Jarrett btw
boombah. well said. see you in denver.
Just caught myself on my first reaction: this is appealing. What am I saying?!
Bravo...
Roll with it, Peter!
My body is clothed with worms and scabs, my skin is broken and festering. My days are swifter than a weaver’s shuttle, and they come to an end without hope. Remember, O God, that my life is but a breath; my eyes will never see happiness again. The eye that now sees me will be no more. As a cloud vanishes and is gone, so he who goes down to the grave does not return. He will never come to his house again; his place will know him no more.
[Job 7:5-10]
Commenting by HaloScan
