love quotes

"a kiss is a lovely trick..." ingrid bergmen



william blake poem i ran across while searching quotes (nice):

http://quotations.about.com/cs/poemlyrics/a/A_Dream_Blake.htm

nostalgia

st rd 15 n of the intersection of 15 & 20 reopened. for those locals, you know what i am talking about. it re-opened this morning. i drove on it for the first time tonight. it was closed for what seems a year, -- probably less.

it used to run a somewhat narrow zig-zag through the real bristol fruit hills, up and down, it wound. it was the road of my youth, covered how many times? it took me to where i needed to go without incident or h arm-- to CR14 west, to my parent's home, time and again -- to CR14 E, to my boyfriend's house when i was 16. again and again. to the school at 5 in the morning for swim practice. past the sign for the apple orchard, past the old hunting grounds, past an old school mate's parents home it wound. it was the road my school bus traveled down.

but as i drove down it tonight as the sun set in the west, i was hard pressed to recognize the road of my childhood. i looked for things i could recognize, but could not find; modernization had blazed it's way through, straight through, change inevitable like the bulldozer that had done its job so well there. the road was wide, it was barren, alien-- it was new. the hills now bowed down to let the many passengers sail through without worry about dips, curves or deer. i wonder if this kind of sadness i feel is not good for me -- probably. it's never good to be attached to objects -- like roads! but deep down i had a pang of sadness for what was lost, something real and original to me-- a trademark to the way home. somehow it felt like an old friend lost, that you only really recognize or appreciate when it's too late, and they are already gone. but i guess this is the way of growing up -- the slow and inevitable disappearance of what seem like small and insignificant landmarks -- like that old road that lead from your small two stoplight town on toward something else. but in thinking on it -- these things are not so little, not so insignificant. they are part of our local history - part of the roadmap of our past and when they are so suddenly and inevitably gone it is unsettling. change is not sentimental; it is cold, and many times it is not kind -- it cares not for nostaliga and has no patience for people like me.

while turning around to drive back home i imagined some time from now i'll be telling someone some ages hence: yes, this flat way was once the fruithills of my childhood -- the winding way with apple trees and large shady oaks that stood like sentinals on each side -- for there was the road-side market, here was the orchard way, there was once the aged pine at the sometimes icy intersection...here, the spot my school bus topped to pick up the neighbor kids. yes, these were the fruithills of my youth -- the road home that is no more. and i will be saddened then, as saddened i am now, for how can one paint a picture of an ordinary beauty so long lost-- of what was looked over and taken for granted but significant somehow? how can one paint a picture of what no longer is?

I once spent some time with a man who was a severe schizophrenic. He paused thoughtfully and said, "sometimes...you have to be a little crazy to find your... normal." He was a very ill man and had struggled with mental illness all his life. He was unkempt, disshelved and suffered ticks and "spells." He wore ill-fitting sweats and fitted socks with ironic smilie faces on the bottoms. I never saw him in shoes. Between his "spells" where he would lose track of where he was, and suffer a tick, he would tell me of what he wanted to be -- "maybe an attorney," he said seriously, "I like to talk." Part of his working mind that touched reality was clever and insightful. He was a devoted Christian. Between spells, he said Christ had risen him from low places.

He told me this as we sat down to lunch. My lunch tray was before me, untouched -- and I was disgusted about everything in my life. Phyically wasting away, my wrists looked so small, too small as I looked at my hands in my lap. The industrial lights glared off the table. I wore no make-up and felt like everything had been striped away. I was at the end of myself. No, I was beyond that place - somewhere else, beyond living or feeling...beyond being. I simply was. Like a tree or a desk or a book. I took up space. In this state, I thought about his words ... they rolled around in my head... slowly... and I realized... if that man can say he has been risen from low places...

perhaps,

perhaps

I can

too.

----
I never appreciated freedom until I was in a room that required keys I did not have.