More in Sorrow than in Anger

Looking back recently, the writing here's fallen off to a caution flag's pace, tokenly reappearing near the end of each week to express basically the same thing - the sparse yet optimistic beatings of a spirited but weary heart at week's end and its dreams for the onward journey. Repetitive, necessary tonic, redundant, as you like it, what you will. There is thought that as the summer weather finally arrives, more positive changes could or should be made. Small changes to patterns of behaviour both therapeutic and conventional in nature. Yet another checklist of things you can say to do, since there seems the strength and will and means to do't. Oh, but for those most powerful of English words - And Yet.

For comfort zones remain difficult glass floors/ceilings to crack - even true lovers of spontaneous heroics prefer randomness according to a particular reference point, I'd wager, whether it be Gorman's search for 54 other Dave Gormans or Hawks' quest to play the Moldovan footballers at Tennis. How these particular forms of insanity arose is no great matter. The excuse is all. And so is continually chased. All you need is the right line in a book on a wall in a pub on a street in a small town to get the process going. If times like those make it all too evident that life is being lived right, what does that say of our failings at other times when it is not?

All this just more meaningless jibber jabber for a Thursday, I suppose, as I stare out at the tugboats and the clouds moving slowly past the window, balls of cotton high above and off to the right and heading south. No reckonings today. But I do think the persistance serves its purpose. For dreams with dates set out in the distance, there are times when you are allowed to curse the horizon, if only in the real intent is to hasten your approach to it.

Manana mas, as we like to say. And rightfully so. Me gusta Fridays.