Yes  By  W. Bruce Watson
Yes. And I remember that warm May day, how we met by chance on the canal path, the Upper Lough Erne, the Inland Irish Waterways, I, with my Louis Jordan Edition Calvados linen jacket with Mandarin collar slung nonchalantly over my shoulder, Cheri Blum Pink Puce Antique-"your socks don't match," you said later over a Guinness in that spavined, dreary little pub that reeked of Society Garlic and canal stench, for this was the last warm day at the end of a week of warm days, and to my query, "each other or my Trussardi Beige Linen Trousers?" you whispered almost inaudibly, looking down and to one side as if embarrassed over something you just remembered, leaning forward, the decolletage of your Betsey Johnson, imported from America, complex layered floral print in shades of mauve and taupe, revealing serenity's very heart, sending my heart racing, nauseating me with desire, "both", and suddenly, leaning forward even more, the more to share them all white and perfect and waiting, your siren's song, my heart was going like mad, you read to me from an inscription on the back of the Cartier inlaid carnelian cameo hanging there, "it's from the very end", you said, "Ulysses":
and the night we missed the boat at Algeciras the watchman
going about serene with his lamp and O that awful deep down torrent O and
the sea the sea crimson sometimes like fire and the glorious sunsets and
the fig trees in the Alameda gardens yes and all the queer little streets
and the pink and blue and yellow houses and the rose gardens and the
jessamine and geraniums and cactuses and Gibraltar as a girl where I was
a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the
Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me
under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then
I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I
yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes
and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and
his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.
and made me cry, and how it hadn't mattered in that moment as we approached each other when we met, whether they were puce or taupe, for even from a distance I could clearly sense, see the 'yes' you had saved for me all your life long, and you, mine. Yes.
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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