I like the connection between the idea of dreaming, the image and the sea as symbol of the unconscious.
via wydarzenia.o.pl
I loved her. She loved me. and went to extraordinary lengths to show it. Because it is not possible now. And perhaps not possible in what the world has become.
I would accept her pain like I say I loved her.I don’t think its possible to give birth to yourself. But we didn’t know that then.
There is no hiding anything in a small town they are in part built on old shames and small confidences. And people will seek them out in order to get to safely know each other. Although salesmen, and other benevolent strangers also have their uses.
And so, suddenly she arrived in town and began work at the Diner. Although perhaps over educated and too attractive to do so. Fortunately for her it seemed to most of the towns women she was also a variety of the stiff upper lip club, and not a threat to their men. But according to the proprietors wife she was sleeping with her husband. An absolutely unlikely old Italian who ran the place.The town reacted a little self righteously with a glazed and untantalized indifference inferring that there was no evidence,
He had she said started calling her Caro Mio after many years of neglect. And more reluctantly leaning across the counter confided to customers that she , to her shame, had began to react spontaneously to his sexual advances. He had also it seemed began playing the piano and composing as he had done in his twenties.
Because of his advanced age this seemed ludicrous and obscene to everyone in town,
But the wife anonymously received wife a bunch of flowers once a week for the six months while the new waitress remained there; as perhaps an apology and this initially seemed in part bare out her theory.Gianni her husband it was accepted was far to parsimonious to buy flowers. And six months, was half a year of flowers.
The day after the woman left the last of the flowers arrived with a note which said. Thank you both so much. You have been the bridge across my river of no return.
They both seemed satisfied with this explanation and behaved,as perhaps they believed that they had slipped past her on that bridge somehow,and had gotten back across that notional river.
By William Blake
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare sieze the fire?
And what shoulder, & what art.
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
