raise a glass tonight, my friends.
raise a glass for love, the great mystery that, in the end, escapes us all.
raise a glass for those unspeakably beautiful things which, in their inevitable passing, become even more beautiful yet.
raise a glass to the understanding that love is not enough, to the certain knowledge that, no matter how much you love someone, it does not mean that you can make them happy.
raise a glass to the moments of pure happiness, the ones you know, even at the time, will shine in your memory years later, glittering gems amidst the dullness of the everyday.
raise a glass to those pretty dreams of a future that is always receding into the distance, never arriving.
raise a glass for a love so bittersweet that it is indistinguishable from pain, from longing, from happiness, from all the strongest emotions you've ever felt, all screaming through your head at once.
raise a glass to knowing better than to give up things you know you can't do without, even when your heart tells you otherwise.
raise a glass to waking in the morning to know you are finally home, and that you cannot stay.
raise a glass to figuring out what you want just in time to feel it slip through your fingers.
raise a glass to knowing you had a chance to break the pattern of your own selfishness, and missed it.
raise a glass to having caused more pain with love than you will ever cause through hatred.
raise a glass to knowing when to walk away, though you leave half your self behind.
raise a glass to coming back though all seems hopeless.
raise a glass for one last kiss, though you can hardly breathe for crying.
raise a glass tonight, for love.
i miss you so much, tonight. i miss every one of you. and when i close my eyes, almost, i can reach out, i can feel you there, far away. whether you are in Albuquerque or Oregon or San Francisco or Dublin or just down on 30th street. living your life, day by day, without me. you kiss her good morning. you go to the shops. you dance in the black light. you fall asleep early. you chop wood for your fire. you tie back your hair.

and afterward, you all go to coffee, and everyone laughs at your jokes.

and you've changed, you've changed. you've cut your hair, you've grown a beard, you've changed your style, you've changed your walk. you're older now -- we're both older, now. but i -- i would still know you, if i saw you tomorrow. i would still know you if we passed on the street. you are in all my stories. you are in all the songs. i could never forget you, scattered fragments of my heart.

but have i changed the smallest thing? is anything different at all? a half-remembered fragment, like a trap -- the smell of shampoo, a familiar turn of phrase, a stranger's gesture? the slightest pull, like gravity? when you close your eyes, can you feel me, too?
project2501: (lain)
From "Anecdotal Evidence," by Eliot Weinberger, in the Fall 2003 issue of Conjunctions. (As reprinted in the June issue of Harper's.)

On a cold, rainy February night in New York, I remembered the story André Malraux used to tell -- and which, at some remove, was told to me -- about Mallarmé's cat, whose name, almost needless to say, was Blanche.

On a cold, rainy February night in Paris, a thin and bedraggled alley cat, wandering the streets, looks in the window of Mallarmé's house and sees a white, fat, and fluffy cat dozing in an overstuffed chair by a blazing fire. He taps on the window.

"Comrade cat, how can you live in luxury and sleep so peacefully when your brothers are out here in the streets starving?"

"Have no fear, comrade," Blanche replies. "I'm only pretending to be Mallarmé's cat."
project2501: (miho)
my first thought upon waking:

sleeping, dreaming, is so very simple. then you awaken, and the mesh of causality settles upon you like a net.



December 2010

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