Up and working on house cleaning. Mid-morning and it is mostly done. Toilets were supposed to go in today but you did not check your email in time, so another day. Rooms are clean now, however, so all is not a loss.
“Cleaning house” has a lot of meanings. Once house cleaning begins it goes until it’s over, one room at a time. I am never too happy about it until it’s done, then I am thankful such energy has left the body and mind until another day, preferably, long off. (Maybe I’ll be dead and miss the next one, not a bad trade-off.)
You smile thinking about your old college teacher, Dr. John Coulter who died after finals and had not had a chance to grade all those essays, a job he did not well like. – Amorella.
Dark humor can be laced with a private smile for an old friend of mine. He was a good man, and by all accounts perhaps he still is. I hope Bob finds him and they have a good chat; that is, if we survive physical death. Like hope, the imagination cannot close the door on possibilities and the probabilities can easily be ignored.
After half a ham and cheese sandwich and a glass of ice water for lunch, and I have decided to use a more original Jewish translation of the two lines.
**
“And an highway shall be there, and a way,
and it shall be called The way of holiness;”
From: qbible.com/hebrew-old-testament/isaiah/35.html
**
This popped up in all caps, should I leave it this way?
There is no need to go to a Hebrew translation. I prefer that you don’t in this case. – Amorella.
I thought this translation would be closer to the original; to the contextual words Ezekiel would have known the lines.
If this were nonfiction, boy, the shit would hit the fan. – Amorella.
Very funny, Amorella, my shit, no doubt.
There is no shit on this side of the fence so I guess it would be yours.
If this were nonfiction I would be labeled in madness.
Anyone who believed it would be labeled in madness, boy. That’s the fun part. – Amorella.
What a sense of humor, as bad as my own, which stands to figure of course.
You are an old fool, orndorff, endearing to me; otherwise I wouldn’t be here, but endearing to yourself, not too much. – Amorella.
Methinks; not too much to my friends either. I think I was endearing to my grandparents once but that wore off.
Everyone is endearing to someone boy even if it is out of sympathy.
I don’t need any sympathy or empathy or anything – I am a rock as Dillon used to sing.
More power to you, kid. – Amorella.
What a phrase. What wit.
Post. – Amorella.
You watched Castle and The Gifted Man after another great pizza from Papa John. Your and Carol’s favorite: large, half veggie; half works. Carol had two pieces and you had three. Castle was themed around a superhero in a comic and The Gifted Man, a new show focused on a driven neurosurgeon meeting his now dead once wife of ten years earlier. You found yourself secretly identifying yourself with him except I am no ghost of an ex-wife, and I am not using you, if anything you are using me. This is the nonfiction. You can observe it throughout the postings. You do not see me as a physical being. Sometimes for over twenty years when you close your eyes you see an ‘eye’ appear, a single eye with eyelashes, sometimes it blinks as you look into it. Originally you thought it was ‘angelic’ but to you the eyelashes make it less so as you cannot imagine the physical form of an Angel with hair on its body. Nude, yes. Adult male or adult female, yes; but no hair and no finger or toenails either. Both would be unbecoming to your imagination. Even imagination has limits, boy, and the above are examples of yours.
What you (Amorella) write is how I once saw an aspect of what I thought was you – the dark eyelashes were/are feminine. The silent eye and eyelashes would be as the ghost in the story. The blinking I witnessed a few times but I did not sense an eyelid, just the movement of the eyelashes into a blink mode. I know it was/is imagination to keep me mentally stable, on solid ground, so to speak. The same reason I wrote and told Patti that I now sense Bob sometimes as I/you write through the wit. This is a coping mechanism. Writing has always been a coping mechanism. It is for many people. The published Merlyn books are a kind of proof, a verification of my having a real imagination and real human thoughts.
Writing makes your imagination and reason sharable. How else can one share herorhis imagination laced in reason? For you, it is only grammar – that is the vehicle. A word, a phrase, a sentence. A horizontal rope of words for your heartansoulanmind to dangle from. The stage which you pass through everyday is physical reality. It exists head to toe and you frame it in imagination and reality, almost everyday. Now, that is your reality. Something to sleep on. Post. – Amorella.
It is true. This is pretty much how I see each day. I still experience what is real to most everyone else. I am in the world. I shall the real world internally but it is more fun to balance the real world with reason and imagination. That's how I see it. What does it hurt? I know a hawk from a handsaw.
No comments:
Post a Comment