"for christ's sake", he said, "that's been my trade."
"you can't see the world with your mouth, jack."
discern himself? how? seeing that all relationships are fiction even as they unfold, what's the point of describing past ones through the filters of the moment? past achievements are not indicative of future activity. we're mutating, or we wouldn't be here; and who's to understand the dyslogic of mutation? what is growth? at the very least, he can offer that he's never meant to hurt anyone.
he wonders: the world's different than what he imagined, then re-imagined, re-imagined again and then re-imagined one more time. there are no rules, really. the more he thinks about things the less sense there is; he's giving that up, he thinks to himself, and floats with the current.
we dream in our waking moments, and walk in our sleep.
he can't figure out what keeps people together, it's a paradox; many are searching for a life-long pal, and most of the pal-ups are breaking up; passion doesn't last, dedication isn't the glue, what's left? what's the half-life of a relationship, he wonders? what's the signal to abase higher goals and move on? why? at his best, he sits quietly wondering if a man can dissolve in a perfect way and be loved forever; he wonders if anyone can. in his face there is a brooding peace.
the girl gingerly steps down the stairs to the platform, her gentle gaze attentive to each step. on the platform she sprints to the ringing train, her face a complete smile as she notices the conductor's nod. on the glass, she offers the faintest wave, he imagines. it's time to express himself again. maybe to simply find new meaning from the old.
the human face is a unique magnet, he understands; our recognition for random objects fails at exposures of less than half a second - geometrical objects, less than a fiftieth of a second. but our perception of a smile will remain from a flash as short as a thousandth of a second, so sensitive are our minds to images of the human face.
his book moves forward in disjointed starts. he doesn't want to write about his narrow little life, who cares about that? capturing a bigger, meaningful picture escapes him; he's trying. it's odd, he sees, how a life that's felt so full, seems empty to write about. who has access to experience?; does his amount to anything of consequence?
life's a revolving door, looking back on it, people come and go, he comes and goes, it'd be a lie to think otherwise, he realizes; needs, interests, speeds change over time and it's suffocating, or incendiary to deny them. this place, now, is as close to real as it gets; and the memories of those places, then, keep him company; tomorrow is only vapor.
long before political correctness was the trend, his language contained gentle words; it's the way he thinks. at times when others respond with aggravation, he's learned to see that their hurt was escaping them, and that the twists they added to events came from their pain and their fear. he does what he can to promote healthy conversations, and feels a little deflated when disagreements turn into conflicts.
montreal's not home, it never has been, but it's where he's spent most of his life. drawn back by loneliness after an attempt on the west coast in the eighties, thrown back after a failed married in brooklyn in the the early tens, he's biding time, enjoying his remaining family until the itch to get somewhere english gets strong again -- it's inevitable, it will, he enjoys being immersed in his culture.
romantics are always betrayed in the end, and o'malley did a savage job of betrayal. goodbye eagle, farewell dodgers; is this place just a geographical form of insanity?
embrace it all; love, but nothing in particular. perhaps