Saturday, February 16, 2013

I for you was born too late

Je suis desja d'amour tanné, 
Ma tres doulce Valentinée,

Long Live, Wilderness
I spent yesterday chasing the sun.
I spent today frolicking in the hills, bounding through spongy sheaves of grass like they were so many pillows on a feather mattress.
I broke away from the group, and made my way to the top of a shelf of rocks.
Following the sound of the voice on the wind, I walked to the edge, and looked over at the sea of grassy waves below.
I opened my arms.
And I was on top of the world.
The wind whipped around me, my feet planted firmly in the rock, the smell of mud and grass surrounding me, and I knew I was never going to leave.


Once upon a time, the medievals believed in something called green sickness
They called it the Disease of Virgins, because the poor maidens' blood was not full of the rudy life of love-making. Green, I realized, was not just the color of envy, but the color of stainless maidenhood. "When I was green in judgment: cold in blood," sighs Cleopatra, remembering with wistfulness her virginal days. 
German physician Johannes Lange (he was a 16th century-Reformation-style bro) recommended that the disease "peculiar to virgins," should be cured by the young ladies taking up with men, which would hood their Juliet-like unmann'd blood, bating in their cheeks.

We now know to medicate anemia with iron pills. 
I suppose you can get a prescription for heartbreak as well.


As we walked down the streets of Edinburgh, we laughed.
We laughed until we cried.
I don't think you're supposed to laugh that much in public.

I walked into my flat the other day, laughing, to find my roommate laughing by herself, and both of us fell on the floor laughing together.

We stumbled up a hill, almost back to a warm bed and central heating, so close to reaching our goal, so close to achieving home.
We stopped and laughed some more, our feet tired, our legs like jelly, our backs weak from bearing our loads.
I turned to my friend:
"I'm glad you're here with me, Liz, here at the end of all things."
We burst out laughing some more.

“If we couldn't laugh we would all go insane.”
quoth Robert Frost.

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