I was here going to describe why I’m feeling (for the first time) really nervous about returning to Cam, but I’ve decided not to. When I write about things they tend to become more true, which is good for dealing with stuff but not very helpful for this. Instead I will say, I’m very lucky to have made/regained friends at home that I’ll miss, and I’ll remember that, while I’m still breathing, it’s not too late for a new start.
I miight start packing tonight, but I’ve made a list and now I’m minded to leave everything contained therein until tomorrow. A sense of urgency helps me pack.
Everything Is Beautiful from a Distance, and So Are You
by Michael Blumenthal
The young clarinetist, playing Mendelssohn’s Sinfonia #10 in B-minor
in back of the orchestra may be exceedingly beautiful, it’s hard to know
from here, just as I, to her, may be gorgeous myself and the day, in
retrospect, divine, as all the past loves of my life have been, and that boring
evening in County Derry as well, oh yes, they are all beautiful, now, when
I look back upon them, as, no doubt, my life will seem from some calm
and beautiful distance, some rapturous perspective, but here in the here
and now let me say that it’s midafternoon, my lover is on her way over,
it’s been a long chilly day in Budapest, what I thought was a herniated disc
is not, after all, a herniated disc, Mozart’s 250th is behind us, as is the 60th
anniversary of Bartók’s death, and it is only James Taylor on the stereo—
sweet, sentimental James—and I don’t give a damn what anyone thinks
of my taste or emotional proclivities, I only know it’s Thursday and in
an hour I’ll be making love, and, looking up at me from the pillow,
my lover may or may not consider me beautiful, or even desirable,
but the deed will be already done, the evening before us, there
are roasted red peppers and goat cheese in the refrigerator, I’ll be
as far from death as a man can be, oh can you imagine that?