In Life, Every Ending Is

I Was Initially Planning To Write About Grief In Terms Of Eurydice And The Myth Thereof. By That Point The Overall Metaphor Of Height And Depth And Flat And Falling And Rising Was Coming Into Being In My Mind.

And If You Had No Tongue, No Celebrating Language, You’d Do This: Cross Your Hands At The Wrist With Palms Facing Towards You; Place Your Crossed Wrists Over Your Heart (the Middle Of Your Chest, Anyway); Then Move Your Hands Outwards A Short Distance, And Open Them Towards The Object Of Your Love. It’s Just As Eloquent As Speech.

If These Are Indeed The Spirits Of Englishmen And Englishwomen Who Have Passed Over Into The Next World, Surely They Would Know How To Form A Proper Queue?

We Live With Such Easy Assumptions, Don't We? For Instance, That Memory Equals Events Plus Time. But It's All Much Odder Than This. Who Was It Said That Memory Is What We Thought We'd Forgotten? And It Ought To Be Obvious To Us That Time Doesn't Act As A Fixative, Rather As A Solvent. But It's Not Convenient--- It's Not Useful--- To Believe This; It Doesn't Help Us Get On With Our Lives; So We Ignore It.

It Is A Bizarre Thought That In This [u.s. 2008] Presidential Cycle We Could Have Had A Woman In The White House We Might Have A Black Man In The White House But If Either Of Them Had Said They Were Atheists Neither Of Them Would Have Had A Hope In Hell.