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Macintosh  By  W. Bruce Watson
 
The day has become night early on, for I am far north, and it is nearly Winter. I find myself being drawn once again into that park in the square near the heart of the old city, proceeding along one of its many slate-paved, hedge-lined walkways that radiate spoke-like from a dank, moss-stained fountain at its center. And all around the ground is awash with leaves, newly fallen from ancient, multi trunked hazel trees; the boxwood, banked with mottled, ragged drifts. No lavender evening this, more one filled with a darkness that presages the cold, lifeless nights soon to come. Ersatz gas lights meant to evoke the ethos of an earlier, uncomplex time, delimit each walkway with their iron presence, their dim flickerings draping each leaf-strewn corridor with a trembling, sepia haze. Disanimate sentinels. “Docents?”

Deserted. No, not deserted, merely empty. Tonight everyone who could be here, or should be, or had been long ago, or might be again someday, everyone is somewhere else, not here. Empty. No, not empty, a solitary figure, which I had not noticed until now, has appeared. She is standing—for it is not a man I see—and waiting on the walkway opposite mine and beyond the fountain, the visible hub of the great, secret wheel that marrows this park and is in turn by it concealed and forever stilled. Has she been there all this time, parallax first concealing her presence with the fountain, only revealing it to me now, in a single, heart stopping instant? Or, was she never there, where was she, or was she ever anywhere, but is now here, suddenly, there where I see her, and perhaps only because I see her? Magic. Torment?

She seems familiar but only from a ways away. Nearer now, her countenance becomes indistinct—the nearer, the more. I can see her face, but only see it; I cannot recognize it, for somehow that has suddenly become impossible, or perhaps it is forbidden and was so all along from long ago. That coalescence of features that distinguishes her face from all others dissipates and dissolves in the nearness, as if seen out of the corner of one eye, as if seen from too close, and broken apart like a reflection in unsettled water, cleaves into disparate features that can not and will not reveal their wearer's who. Dearest Caer?
 
 
The truth is, after much furrowing of brow, I can't think of anything to say by way of preface to my blog. Along the way I wondered what it's purpose might be and maybe I should say a few words about that and would, except that I don't know what its purpose is, or could be, or should be. I only know that my clock is winding down and I'm so desperate to have my mind known that I could just spit! Maybe my blog could be about that. But how depressing and pretentious that could be! But hold on a second, maybe not—my therapist commented the other day how in late adulthood (AKA elder years), one is forced to deal with the sense of loss, all the time, it's always there, and it's painful, it takes great faith to live on even though one knows it's going to end and that whatever they accomplish, if anything, is not going to matter all that much. How does one find meaning or a sense of fulfillment in life knowing that it’s coming to an end? Psychologists have not written much about this if anything. It's sort of an unexamined part of adult life. It takes a lot of self-discipline to function in spite of this sense of loss—it's so easy to give up on the constant struggle, on life. A lot of people do—drinking, TV, drugs, electrosex, So, if you'll bear with me, let us examine this unexamined part of adult life.
 
 
 
 
Copyright © 2011 W. Bruce Watson, Inc. All rights reserved.  
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