something about boats.

he was supposed to say something about boats.
"we came down the canals together from oswego", he said.
"then why didn't I see you there?" Lila said.

you did see me there before, he thought, but now the illumination had disappeared and her voice wasn't the way he had always thought it would be and so now this was just another stranger like all others.


to the untrained eye

ego-climbing and selfless climbing may appear identical. both kinds of climbers place one foot in front of the other. both breathe in and breathe out at the same rate. both stop when tired. both go forward when rested. but what a difference! the ego-climber is like an instrument that’s out of tune. he puts his foot down an instant too soon or too late. he’s likely to miss a beautiful passage of sunlight through the trees. he goes on when the sloppiness of his step shows he’s tired. he rests at odd times. he looks up the trail trying to see what’s ahead even when he knows what’s ahead because he just looked a second ago. he goes too fast or too slow for the conditions and when he talks his talk is forever about somewhere else, something else. he’s here but he’s not here. he rejects the here, is unhappy with it, wants to be farther up the trail but when he gets there will be just as unhappy because then the IT will be “here.” what he is looking for, what he wants, is all around him, but he doesn’t want that because it IS all around him. every step’s an effort both physically and spiritually because he imagines his goal to be external and distant.


it tastes like licorice

the girl said, and put the glass down.
"that's the way with everything."
"yes", said the girl. "everything tastes of licorice. especially all the things you've waited so long for, like absinthe."


you're not going to let me in there

are you? you've got your armour back on. that's that.
- I have no armour left. you've stripped it from me. whatever is left of me... whatever is left of me, whatever I am... I'm yours.