 |
|||||||||||||
 |
|
 |
|||||||||||
 |
 |
||||||||||||
It's time. I haven't posted in a while I suppose, couple months, I figure. Kept dredding a post because I had so damned much to post about, it would be all up-datey and not uber-introspective. I mean, there's a lot to be introspective about, but that much introspection on that many things would just get thick. I prefer to write Robert Fulgham-esqe posts, not neccessarily his style, but ya know, still with that bathroom-reading kind of feel. Not that anyone will read this in the bathroom, I mean, it's a friggin blog, afterall, but I wanted posts to be serving-size, not, ya know, not serving size-ish, and, uh, thick. Or whatever. Eh, screw it. I'm back. And by reading the last paragraph, I can tell that I'm more than a little rusty. But, as I said, I'm back, and it's time. There's so much I'm tempted to write about, and there's so many things I could say that just wouldn't do the past two months justice. But I will say this. All I remember about Liam and I's actual ceremony was us looking at eachother, abosolutely astonished, as I walked down the aisle, Annette dropping the ring mid-ceremony, and Victor presenting us as man and wife. Those memories are more than enough to capture the joy of the day. Nine-year-olds are funny people, especially when they sign the same guestbook on three different occassions or re-pair the moose on the tables at the reception (who were dressed like Liam and I) to be more "politically correct." Sometimes it seems like I've been separated from childhood for too long. I've become an adult, and I've grown accustomed to associating with adults. I watch kids at th mall or airport (in a non-stalker way), and I greet them when I fetch the mail, but it had been awhile since I'd gotten to truly witness the child psyche at work, which caught me off guard in the most delightful sense of the term. Damn, I want kids. There are few things more beautiful than flying over fireworks at night. Spending a few days with old friends is a most delightful honor. I love them as much as ever. Having no classwork or job is really getting to me. I feel lazy, and I hate that. I hate always being sick, too. For as little as it feels like I do, I feel so damned worn out. Marriage genuinely does add a whole new dimension to a relationship. Previously, I had bought the lie that it would just be a technicality, a most splendid technicality, but that Liam and I had pretty much had a full grasp on everything else. It's hard to explain, but whenever I think of it, my mind goes back to the Little Prince and his rose and his realizaion that he was responsible for the rose he had tamed. He tended to it as before, and admired it as before, and cherished it as before. But he realized this deeper bond with that which he loved, and the love was more consumate. Which is the closest, at the moment, I can come to descibing marriage. Which seems to be in the right direction, but not as close as I'd like be to fully describing its previously ungrasped significance. Maybe someday, I'll find the right words. Liam seems remarkably at peace in NH. He seems happy elsewhere, but something about returning to the place of his childhood which he hadn't seen in eight years brough a new smile to his face. He promised, of course, that someday we could visit Germany, my homeland, together. I look foward to that. Perhaps it will complete something for me, too. The announcement of the planned closing Benjamin Franklin Village, where I lived for seven years, seemed strikingly natural. I loved the place, but it seems only fair that the place where I grew so profoundly should also be permitted to undergo a metamorphis of it's own. Maybe it sounds stoic of me, but I hope it's something more mature than that. I hope it's an healthy appreciation, nay, an understanding of change. Jack's still the same brown-nosing cat I brought home in '97. I'm ashamed to admit I still fall for his I-love-you-I-love-you-now-feed-me-dammit gags. The cat's got me hooked, and he knows it. Post a comment in response: |
| © 2002-2008. Blurty Journal. All rights reserved. |