#58

I have no story to tell, not a memory to share today, but I am writing the thought that woke me up:

There is no wound too deep to heal; no love too great to forget.

And because I like you, I'll tell you what T.S. Eliot told me when he spoke to me this morning:

And indeed there will be time

For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

#30

Tomorrow, another month begins (and in another place close to my heart: another season unfolds). Today is a holiday. Later, June will end. Where did half of my year go? In books and journal entries and in making my bank account content. Not happy, not sad, just content.

-----

For you, from Charles Bukowski's Bluebird:

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pur whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.