Everyone I have ever loved I have hurt.

Awful knowledge. Unendurable. Knowledge to make one appreciate doubt and the easier way; the way of no cross.

Because if I love, and I make hurt, I am culpable. My fault, my own fault, my most grievous fault.

O save me.

Knowing all I canÂ’t undo, I can only ask for mercy, and can only be mercy in return.

Which is insufficient.

Whom we love, we hurt, because we know we can.

And understanding that brings the deepest hurt of all.

Yup. More of her Lenten meditation here.

Or: "The pain then is part of the happiness now. That's the deal." (Joy in Shadowlands.)

There is no real way out, except in isolation—and that's even more heartbreaking. The Anchoress is right: in the pain of loving, we become fully alive.

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But it isn't like I didn't handle weather extremes yesterday as I drove back to L.A. from Shell Beach.

For one thing, the temperature outside was a crisp 68 degrees; I really prefer 70 to 72.

For another, I left the sunroof open too long, and got a touch of sunburn.

The abandoned Arroyo Hondo bridge, along the U.S. 101

So it isn't like I don't have painful realities that I must come to terms with, in my own way.

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How did you guess?

I don't know how much longer my grandmother will be imprisoned within the world of her deafness.

I don't know whether my uncle truly hopes, in his heart of hearts, that she'll hang on as long as possible. I don't know whether my father truly hopes, in his heart of hearts, that she will die soon. Or whether the motives are selfish or selfless in either case.

I do know that I'm caught in multiple paradoxes when I come up here: gratitude for the amazing care my grandmother receives in her last years, and that it is delivered by her son and daughter-in-law, rather than "staffers" at a "home." Gratitude that her own longevity may suggest I'll be around—with a sharp mind—for a long time to come. Gratitude for any pleasure she gets these days, and a hope that it's worth it, despite the isolation her deafness causes. Smug satisfaction that as an internet junkie I'll be able to communicate with others just fine view text messaging, email and the like--even if I can no longer hear.

A feeling that I will end up owing my uncle and aunt some sort of debt that I shall never be able to repay.

I would like to get up to the Pismo Beach Area once a month, but lately it's been more like every three months. I shall just have to do my best.

The bitchin' things:

1) getting to know my uncle much better than I ever did when I was a kid, and connecting on some level with his loyal and courageous bride;

2) the pretty drive up the coast;

3) Having my grandmother tell me things that she never told me when I was young. She is being very honest, lately—very real. At least, she was when we could communicate in two directions.

4) The enforced isolation at night here at the Oxford Inn and Suites (less so when there are other family members lurking in the same complex).

"Take the sweet with the sour, if you take me."

—W. B. Yeats

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she can read for five hours at a stretch. I just couldn't handle that."

I open my mouth. I close it. If one had all the leisure in the world, why would one stop at five hours?

When I'm old and deaf it'll be nonstop murder mysteries, or something equally intriguing, yet salacious. Material that's intensely violent, sexual, and lyrical at the same time. Like good poetry, or my sweet menopausal dreams.

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Please be gentle.

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My boss called me when it started, and told me it was visible from the parking lot at work. I went on down, but couldn't spot it; he might not have been taking the ambient light in that neighborhood into account, or maybe it was blocked by a building.

But it was waning (is that the word?) as I drove home. I kept looking at it, and finally pulled over to try to get a shot with my tiny camera and rather sad command of "digital photography" (and what a funny term that is, now that I think of it—as if we took pictures with our fingers).

No dice, of course. But I'm sure someone's getting a good picture of it, somewhere. There are people out there with good equipment, who know what they're doing.

So I just came home, fired up the laptop, and walked outside to admire the moon every now and then from my driveway.

That's the reason I bought this house, you know: the view of the moon from this street.

I hope I can still find a way to look at it after I've left. Do they have the moon at night in other cities? Can one see it from a condominium? I just want to be prepared, you know.

Tonight, the moon was, indeed, the North Wind's Cookie.

UPDATE: Aha! Here we go! Eclipse pix!

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"That's okay," he responds. "When you get home, you can switch to Scotch."

"Oh, right. Fair enough," I reply.

At first I think he's joking, though he doesn't drink. Later, I realize he is not. Not joking at all.

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Fake Dixie always enchants me after midnight. I prayed God to keep my hand off her knee.

—"Midnight at Tim's Place"

(From memory; someone can fact-check me on the quote, but I'm pretty sure I'm spot-on.)

In the same vein I intend someday to party with The Blogger Formerly Known As Feisty Republican Whore. If RightGirl were to join us, however, I fear Western Civilization might end—and rather abruptly, at that.

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Joni Mitchell is so underrated as a poet.

"It takes cheerful resignation,

Heart and humility;

That's all it takes,"

A cheerful person told me. Nobody's harder on me than me—

How could they be?

And, nobody's harder on you than you.

Betsy's blue;
She says-"Tell me something good!"
You know I'd help her out if I only could.
Oh, but sometimes the light
Can be so hard to find;
At least the moon at the window—
The thieves left that behind.

People don't know how to love;
They taste it and toss it,
Turn it off and on
Like a bathtub faucet.
Oh sometimes the light
Can be so hard to find—
At least the moon at the window—
The thieves left that behind.

I wish her heart;
I know these battles.
Deep in the dark,
When the spooks of memories rattle.
Ghosts of the future,
Phantoms of the past,
Rattle, rattle, rattle
In the spoon and the glass.

Is it possible to learn
How to care and yet not care—
Since love has two faces:
Hope and despair.
And pleasure always turns to fear, I find.
At least the moon at the window—
The thieves left that behind .
At least they left the moon
Behind the blind
Moon at the window.

I just took an extra Ritalin; it seemed like the thing to do. Ex-fucking-celsior!

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Men don't pay for sex. We pay so y'all will leave afterward.

—IRA Darth Aggie

It just sounds so logical and reasonable when you explain it like that . . .

Full disclosure: I changed "afterwards" to "afterward." I feel that this is within my purview—not because I have to actually style quotes in this space, but because the "afterwards" really, really bugged me.

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