Untitled.
9 August 1998
![[ ]](http://mbpix.mushroom.net/19980809y.png)
it's nice outside. almost alternate-reality magical world nice. i caught another real, if brief, glimpse of it in lincoln. george and sonali and i were at this park, and i wandered over to a gazebo and was staring up at the top of it, and sonali came over and said something about how there was a lot of magic in that gazebo.
if i went out and laid in the field and looked up at the stars i'd bet i could feel a little of it, but i have work i should be doing, and it's always better with someone else, even if they're not seeing the same stuff you are, so i'd probably just end up lying out there in the grass and crying or something. or almost crying. i haven't really cried since.. since california, i think. don't know if that's out of some sort of being more emotionally balanced, or being more emotionally blocked.
i tried to write some poetry at lunch. it came out in prose though. about that simple gesture, a single moment sitting on the couch in sonali's apartment. i feel like there should be a poem in there somewhere, but it's getting further and further away. of course i wrote "tomorrow, over coffee" years after the event at the center of it, so.. i want to share something now though, so here's what i did write:
it's hard for me to convey the significance of that moment. it was a bubble inside of a bubble, a spiral growing from the point at which her fingers touched my wrist towards an infinity at once real and so magical that even the faeries would think it fantastic. i'm not sure we're meant to understand these events or be able to express them in language.
if i went out and laid in the field and looked up at the stars i'd bet i could feel a little of it, but i have work i should be doing, and it's always better with someone else, even if they're not seeing the same stuff you are, so i'd probably just end up lying out there in the grass and crying or something. or almost crying. i haven't really cried since.. since california, i think. don't know if that's out of some sort of being more emotionally balanced, or being more emotionally blocked.
i tried to write some poetry at lunch. it came out in prose though. about that simple gesture, a single moment sitting on the couch in sonali's apartment. i feel like there should be a poem in there somewhere, but it's getting further and further away. of course i wrote "tomorrow, over coffee" years after the event at the center of it, so.. i want to share something now though, so here's what i did write:
it's hard for me to convey the significance of that moment. it was a bubble inside of a bubble, a spiral growing from the point at which her fingers touched my wrist towards an infinity at once real and so magical that even the faeries would think it fantastic. i'm not sure we're meant to understand these events or be able to express them in language.