Sometimes, it can be…

…a trial, to read that which one does not understand.  And as such, I do not mean “comprehend,” since my comprehension is usually not the issue at hand.  No; for me, this is usually an issue not of failing to comprehending the message itself, but of not understanding the “why” of what I comprehend. Why was it written? Why, if it were an account, did it happen? How did another man come to see such things–to parse the meaning of such things–so differently from the way in which I see them? Why did he? Is he aware of this? Is this view genuine or deliberate? Does the writer realise, or does he not, that there is a better/more productive/more positive/more uplifting/more exalting way in which such events or thoughts may be, and perhaps should be, interpreted?

Still, I think it is particularly interesting, the way in which we often follow almost any blog.  I have mentioned in a post or two, as well as in comments, here and there,  that there are a few such blogs I do not follow.  These, in general, are:

  • Those with no comments permitted–quite often not “real” blogs at all. This is whether I may choose to comment or not.
  • To that I would add those who never take comments out of moderation.  I think perhaps, I’d more likely follow a blog with closed comments–providing that the content makes me happy.  This is because the author is wasting the effort of his readers in so doing.  It is perhaps even more disingenuous–or leastwise, strikes me as such.
  • Also any magazine or aggregation site.  And this, for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is that I just cannot bring myself to do so.
  • Also, awards.  I don’t participate in these on any level, also for a variety of reasons, most of which would bore you to tears, no doubt; but which I have touched upon here and there in the past.

The Last Kiss

I have never been able to understand how such a thing can happen. And I am so very sorry–whenever I hear about it. My sweetheart and I love each other so very much. And we have for the better part of a century. And in many ways, we seem just the same. Love at first sight, and second, and third… I know it is not this way for everyone. I understand it intellectually. I suppose… I suppose I wonder… when it is as you describe, does one have a sense of it beforehand? Is there a peculiar sense… a vague sense of something missing?

I am very much afraid to read more, because I feel from the titles I see, that it may all be too sad for me to bear. Still I follow because… On wordpress, that’s what we do for one another. I’ve thought and written extensively upon it. It spans all ideologies, this support. I follow anyone’s blog–with a couple of caveats. It has to be a real blog, not just a few posts as a device to boost traffic to some other site; and it must not be an aggregation site, or magazine site. I don’t participate in such things, whether involving poetry or not. Nor do I participate in anything having to do with awards of any kind. When I receive them or nominations for them, I politely decline them. But apart from that I follow everyone.

And it can be remarkable how someone with whom I have very little, or perhaps, nothing in common, will spark some curiosity, make me laugh or provoke a thought or two. I normally wouldn’t read a post like this in detali, but something about the title and the photograph caught my eye. I felt it warranted some attention. But I do not think I can read much of this kind of post. When one gets to be my age, one likes to laugh especially, I think. My dearest Mrs. Emeron and I do laugh a great deal. For that reason, I have stopped watching television news, as of a few years ago, I believe. Things do still filter down by osmosis, but I don’t seek them out. My blood pressure is normal–the lowest its been in decades without a bit of pharmaceutical help. Those who know me may credit my state of fitness, which has been increasing regularly with due diligence; but I would credit at least half of that with my lack of interest in current events.

Deliberate Donkey

The last time he kissed me was at the end of our marriage ceremony. You may kiss the bride. April 13, 2007. After over five years, I feel like I’ve never been kissed.

There were no good-night kisses. There were no good-morning kisses. No I-love-you kisses. No passionate kisses. No make-out sessions. And, no, you don’t have to kiss to have sex.

A kiss. The elusive kiss seems now more intimate than any other physical connection between two people.

I longed for his kiss. I noticed he never kissed me. If we could, if he could, if I could, would we find our happily ever after?

The answer is no. There was no love, and without love a kiss is as meaningless as the paper plate holding the meal. Our marriage was a paper plate.

View original post