Saturday, December 31, 2005

BusterStronghart@Gmail.com


Saturday, December 31, 2005

Good Riddance Annus Horribilis But,

Last night during Martini Time on the Terrace, the sun had come from behind some heavy, dark clouds in the West and there was a thin cloud cover overhead. the light faded almost to black at about six. Suddenly, startingly, from sand's edge to horizon, the sea became the color of violets dotted by tiny white caps. A very short, very rare, unnatural silence unmarred by the least sound made a few choice moments perfect.

mek


BusterStronghart@Gmail.com

Wm Vollman writes of a man who receives a letter from his lover, in which she begs him to return to him safely because she loves him, loves him passionately. He treasures the letter and rereads almost daily. But as time passes the letter loses its potency. "One night the letter was used up. Instead of tacit it seemed lukewarm. "

We are unknowable. We are nothing.

Later Vollman writes:

"Meager results: that's life. Not to be deterred by meager results: that's a kind of nobility."