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gypsy soul

I have been taken by surprise in my nostalgia. There were long stretches of white noise in the spaces where you were Nathan. A strange mix of amnesia and chosen ignorance of a figure so bound by her own inner Polonius that she chose to believe you were the reason she dove into the river. Great big gulps of murkey waters and mosquito larvae to suck her dry and a wedding gown shroud and dead flowers and reeds to render her voice just a whistle.

But putting on this new woman coat in the midst of this morning's sunrise, I realized your name was innocent. Perhaps your were nearly as incapable in 'He' as I had been in 'She' spurned by the wrong mythology and a confused set of opinions and a real lack of compassion for yourself.

Who knows the answer to anything. I ask a lot of whys at the tender age of almost thirty. All those ghosts real and imagined. Lockett met me in the evening while I painted, and Terry in the face of uncle's new love, and a starlit night floating just between the threads of tea steam in the newfound ceremony of my evenings. Ah tea - I regret the prior days to this when I thought you were sinfulness.

That slate blue mountain like a Japanese rice paper sigh called to me one morning from behind a golf course that brought back Lansing. And he asked me, through dappled golden leaves, if maybe I might forgive you.

And I took one giant leap beyond that thought to say to the noone beside me,

'What is there to forgive?'

This afternoon I remembered what it was to love you. So young and tender and green. And in the ashen heap of overgrown complication that is this forest fire that is this life that is this five seconds of touching finger tips with everyone I meet and then watching them sail into fog...

it occurred to me that finally I like the smell of that thought.

4:15 p.m. - 2007-11-05
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