Sometimes I Think That Just Not Thinking

To Live Exhilaratingly In And For The Moment Is Deadly Serious Work, Fun Of The Most Exhausting Sort

Grief Does Not End And Love Does Not Die And Nothing Fills Its Graven Place. With Grace, Pain Is Transmuted Into The Gold Of Wisdom And Compassion And The Lesser Coin Of Muted Sadness And Resignation; But Something Leaden Of It Remains, To Become The Kernel Arond Which More Pain Accretes (a Black Pearl): One Pain Becomes Every Other Pain ... Unless One Strips Away, One By One, The Layers Of Pain To Get To The Heart Of The Pain - And This Causes More Pain, Pain So Intense As To Feel Like Evisceration.

It's The Perpetually Unfinished Quality Of Housework That Makes It Oppressive - It Never Ends, Like Bad Psychoanalysis, Or A Dream Interrupted. It Is Paradoxically True That It Is Exactly This Daily Re-creation Of The World That Lends Housekeeping Its Nobility And Romance.

Persecution Always Acts As A Jell For Members Of Cults; It Proves To Them, In The Absence Of History, Liturgy, Tradition, And Doctrine, That They Are God's Chosen.

One Feels A Quickening Of The Pulse When One Crosses A Border.