“Once I know that I can remember whenever I like, I forget.”
—Umberto Eco
Her intellect was of a high order. Her appearance and bearing were such as would befit one of the highest stations in society. Many had proved her hospitality, and all of them found her heart fraught with kindness and her pleasant home with comforts. The poor found her charity always fervent and her hand always full.
Pondering the Christmas mystery enables us to believe, against all evidence to the contrary, that God’s love will find a way to bring peace and joy to people of goodwill.
This is it. This is the baseball experience. You build up the energy over 162 games, and you store it and hope for the best, and the radiation becomes too much, and now the parakeet is dead. Great. Except that’s exactly what you want. You want the release after 162 games, the progressive jackpot paying off.
My boyfriend at the time was supposed to come to the shoot—he was three hours late and I was just about to leave for tour. I didn’t think he was even going to come and this was the song that was written for him. He eventually showed up and I got myself in a real emotional state.
I want to be the activated, healthy version of myself. I want my cathexes to be stripped away. I want what remains to be someone who is capable of changing the world.