Nothing where virtue is not.

A new child met his uncle today. I had never held a brand new baby in my life, had never thought I would or should. I had wished to, but the kind of shaking that my hands always have I thought would lead to some harm. But this, my young nephew, how could that be resisted.

A little boy whose sparking eyes looked up at me and whose hands grasped my fingertips. This perfect sort of thing, which made me think that I ought to tuck in my wrinkled shirt or clean my dirtied boots. Because it deserves the freshness it also holds. Such a change occurs in people when they hold in their arms this being that contains an entire long life in its freshly weighted lungs. They receive joy from the sight of the confident sleep of a baby.

Outside of his own blanket wrappings, surrounding structures and the hospital were under construction. All different sorts of objects on wheels were strewn about the hallways, incubators, computers, catheter stands, these things that seem important and like they should be in use or at least placed elsewhere, in a right spot. Sitting about, doing the things that they should not. Some rooms had those translucent, zippered curtains to seal them off from the hallways. And so now, of course, I am back over here on this armed chair with wheels and never elsewhere for use. There is that little baby boy, and if I could have carried him with me.

A giant's dead body.

Starting one of those very timely new year posts here, the sort where you begin to talk about spending your time really living this life, and Lord knows I'm trying. But writing that can sometimes not quite work when the year just past is made to be continually precipitating upon the moments in which my eyes can not be anything but awake, the year end's abrupt changes occuring one after another to where you almost want to let them pass by while under a most incredibly perfect wool blanket. To keep things wrapped up where things can be, that is where I type this from.

What I have been thinking and writing about for some while now is that, as persons among people, we gain a sense of ourselves from others, most often to a greater extent than from only sensing ourselves. They have themselves been woven, like us, and what they present then wraps around you. When, suddenly, you are no longer able to spend that close time with those people because they have moved away or because of your own move, you can feel your whole stabbing insides stop as a result. This happens at varying levels per individual, but this stoppage reveals the sort of dependence you have upon standing nearby those ones closest to your soul. And that is because they are not simply close, or near, to your soul, but are within it. In addition to what and who you are, what they are is what has made you become. I may say for myself, then, that I am so brokenly grateful for the containment of souls I have been given. It is a grace which, to my specific ones, is an inexpressible sentiment. One could whirl obliviously and forgetfully into a new January, but it feels best to sense that grace from within this wool. From right here is where I am able to do so.

The arrival gates at Heathrow Airport.

Christmas list, two thousand and nine.



Please, Santa. Please.

Another round, another round, another round.

I wonder how much room is allowed for one to voice a complaint. If I want to say that I am tired or worn down by important elements of my life, of what value are those to the facts that I have youth and ability. Relatively, though sometimes separately, if I say that I am tired from being awake for twenty out of twenty-four hours each day, and that when I do sleep I am plagued by some of the worst dreams I can remember having, the truth is that I have a chair to sit on and a bed to sleep in. I can open my fridge and I can type on my computers. The place that we live in is a lucky place, and it is our only one. And, further, I have chosen this life. If I want to keep to the topic of academia, I have chosen this school, these classes, these assignments to write and to grade, these applications to send out, this time of night. 4:37 AM. Wait, no, 4:38 AM.

But I walked home through the loveliest blustering snowfall, you know. And so I do not know how bad these things are in truth. Someone next to me in the library wails "FML," bemoaning their shoe that has been scuffed by some heavy swinging door, and is met by their friend sharing anecdotally in the other's grief by lamenting that there is nothing worse but that their dryer shrunk one of their shirts. And they are going to some beach for the holidays.

We should of course feel guilty, I think, for supposing that our whole lives are so taxing to the energies of our soul. There are complaints to make, though, and yes, if there are negative points in a person's life they may feel that they are able to feel negatively about them. So they may do so, but I wonder when that should be challenged. By what means is one enabled to ache over some aspect of their life, and to what level, and why not some other aspect. When one has the kind of breath that is free to deepen as its body tires, I would wish to know where the brimming aches must cease.

Motion for action.

If people bring so much courage to this world the world has to kill them to break them, so of course it kills them. The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it kills you too but there will be no special hurry.

Wister left and vanished, so I have enough glasses again.

I have been writing today about a nothingness that exists between the two poles of an intersubjective relationship, and that this nothingness is everything. The space between two ends is that meaning, that the truth of everything is always unsaid.

Right on.

--

I have these Christmas albums waiting to be listened to, but Dustin and Frank need to wait. For now, it's a Wister/Iser/Foucault/Husserl party, and I'm the host. And I'm out of glasses.

I just woke to eat some chocolate.

Fragments.

I might consider including my Winner, Grade 5 Spelling Bee recognition in my PhD application. The winning word was "banana."

Dusk is a perfect time for music listening.

Flipping through my yearbook, I noted that a number of my high school classmates wrote about their brilliant athletic achievements as a favourite memory. I wonder if they still hold that same importance. If they do, I wonder if they feel good about that.

I might also consider including my Winner, Grade 3 Speech Contest in my PhD application. My topic was Alexander Graham Bell.

To have things like "Favourite Memory" or "Nickname" added to your yearbook entry, you had to fill out a form and hand it in by some deadline, which I missed. Those that missed it had a stock movie quote under their picture. Mine said, "What if what you think is great, really is great, but not as great, as something greater." It's from The Wedding Planner. That is a good quote. I've never seen it.

I can not wait for the briskness of tomorrow's cold morning air and for the crunch of frosted grass. The rest is fine. But that--

Tea and toast, then coke and 'za, then coffee and cake.

I'm not really sure.