Sunday, July 25, 2004
I want that for myself - again.
Okay, so I nicked the topic from someone, rolls eyes. They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. I'd rather just say it was the best I could come up with at 2330 hrs, after a 12 hour shift and 1 hour of auditing.
I have a lot of blogs. And I mean a LOT.
One of them is a jumbled collection of memories about two kids from my past, one of them bizzarly enough, myself, openly viewable to the public.
Another is a a more select form of reminiscence, viewable to a very select few individuals whom I've shared the URL with. At the moment they still number fewer than 10.
One is just a release for pent-up humour and currently holds the preliminary chapters of a short-story that's fast developing into a full-length novel. (a doctor, and a writer! maybe i should become a psychiatrist, I'm clearly insane.)
The last is a very, very private journal known only to myself that ties all the others together - One Ring to bring them all, and in the darkness bind them - and the one individual who somehow found it by accident and visisted it only the once, probably by keying in an incorrect URL.
Reading some of my recollections of the lost magics from my past - of Her, mainly - and I don't do this very often - I feel.
I remember.
And I know what I want in this life. I know I'd rather die waiting for it, than to fritter my life away with a pale shadow - or a mockery - of it.
But dammit, I really do what it - that - again. And maybe at the end of days - that would have been the most important of everything. (besides God of course.) Career? One of our staff grades is a rabbi, and he maintains that medicine is really a sideline for him.
I suppose I'm just a die-hard romantic, under the guise of a grizzled cynic. Or maybe the other way around. It gets confusing, sometimes.
But reading snippets of what I've written, and temporarily reliving those days (flashbacks really DO happen, and not just in the movies. Or maybe it's just time for my tablets again...) I know what "it" is.
It's the epic.
It's something I can write about, something I may not want to write about, but one day will read about again - that will move me. That will cleave its way through the impregnable defences of the inner cynic within myself, and draw my eyebrows together with the effort of keeping my mind at peace, and my eyes... focused. And my lacrimal ducts impassive.
And God willing, something I'll be able to read - in the company of The Person I've written about, and put an arm around her, smell her hair, and laugh together with her over it.
And maybe even one day sit old and doddery, reading alone in the silence of my (?nursing?) home and remember Her (whoever Her may be - not necessarily the Her I've spent a third of my life remembering) and what we were like together, and hope that we may be together once more.
It's the epic that I've lived, and written - that I want to read about again. Not the prelude that never went anywhere, that I'd much rather forget.
There have been a few of those, many spurious, spur of the moment snippets born of a moments flippancy - trying desperately to recapture the spontaneity of before? And not a few of the females in those stories were attractive to me for their personalities.
One was, cough, I admit, attractive to me quite possibly for her looks. Although I maintain we had a lot in common, and I mean MORE than two eyes, two ears, one nose...
These make for entertaining recounting - but they're not stories I particularly want to revisit - for myself. They're pieces of my past I'll always remember, many fondly.
But what I want - what I truly, from the pits of my gut and the depths of my subconscious - burn for is The Epic.
Not just love, not just someone to love, or even someone to love me, nor even to dote relentlessly and obsessively over me. I've seen pieces of all that and they're not enough.
I want words. Words that don't have to be written, or re-read on paper, or media -- just in my head. Words of power. Words of magic. Words of immortality, till time, and God takes me.
I have a lot of blogs. And I mean a LOT.
One of them is a jumbled collection of memories about two kids from my past, one of them bizzarly enough, myself, openly viewable to the public.
Another is a a more select form of reminiscence, viewable to a very select few individuals whom I've shared the URL with. At the moment they still number fewer than 10.
One is just a release for pent-up humour and currently holds the preliminary chapters of a short-story that's fast developing into a full-length novel. (a doctor, and a writer! maybe i should become a psychiatrist, I'm clearly insane.)
The last is a very, very private journal known only to myself that ties all the others together - One Ring to bring them all, and in the darkness bind them - and the one individual who somehow found it by accident and visisted it only the once, probably by keying in an incorrect URL.
Reading some of my recollections of the lost magics from my past - of Her, mainly - and I don't do this very often - I feel.
I remember.
And I know what I want in this life. I know I'd rather die waiting for it, than to fritter my life away with a pale shadow - or a mockery - of it.
But dammit, I really do what it - that - again. And maybe at the end of days - that would have been the most important of everything. (besides God of course.) Career? One of our staff grades is a rabbi, and he maintains that medicine is really a sideline for him.
I suppose I'm just a die-hard romantic, under the guise of a grizzled cynic. Or maybe the other way around. It gets confusing, sometimes.
But reading snippets of what I've written, and temporarily reliving those days (flashbacks really DO happen, and not just in the movies. Or maybe it's just time for my tablets again...) I know what "it" is.
It's the epic.
It's something I can write about, something I may not want to write about, but one day will read about again - that will move me. That will cleave its way through the impregnable defences of the inner cynic within myself, and draw my eyebrows together with the effort of keeping my mind at peace, and my eyes... focused. And my lacrimal ducts impassive.
And God willing, something I'll be able to read - in the company of The Person I've written about, and put an arm around her, smell her hair, and laugh together with her over it.
And maybe even one day sit old and doddery, reading alone in the silence of my (?nursing?) home and remember Her (whoever Her may be - not necessarily the Her I've spent a third of my life remembering) and what we were like together, and hope that we may be together once more.
It's the epic that I've lived, and written - that I want to read about again. Not the prelude that never went anywhere, that I'd much rather forget.
There have been a few of those, many spurious, spur of the moment snippets born of a moments flippancy - trying desperately to recapture the spontaneity of before? And not a few of the females in those stories were attractive to me for their personalities.
One was, cough, I admit, attractive to me quite possibly for her looks. Although I maintain we had a lot in common, and I mean MORE than two eyes, two ears, one nose...
These make for entertaining recounting - but they're not stories I particularly want to revisit - for myself. They're pieces of my past I'll always remember, many fondly.
But what I want - what I truly, from the pits of my gut and the depths of my subconscious - burn for is The Epic.
Not just love, not just someone to love, or even someone to love me, nor even to dote relentlessly and obsessively over me. I've seen pieces of all that and they're not enough.
I want words. Words that don't have to be written, or re-read on paper, or media -- just in my head. Words of power. Words of magic. Words of immortality, till time, and God takes me.
