she would gently chew at the inside of her cheek when pondering; her eyes focussed inward where her heart continued to hold sway.
no amount of intellectual growth could change where she was coming from – her heart [her gut] always defined whether she was wrong or right in her diagnosis of the situation.
and her heart was always right.
and her factual misdemeanours were not enough to convince me that she was wrong in trusting her heart.
and it tormented her sometimes to know she was right against all empirical evidence to the contrary.
and when she was wrong [or felt she’d made the wrong decision] she would become angry with herself; and then she’d become angry with the world.
and when she was right she would glow with happiness and enjoyment at the fruits of her labour.
and she never once said i told you so
and she never let me cross the line between being who i was and being who my ego sometimes said i was.
she was/is a goddess.
she looks out at me from the image of her face on the inner surface of my space; I cannot bring myself to animate that image, for it is only that – an image of the person I shared my life with.
the {interface} asks: “this font is not available on your system. do you want to use it anyway?”
i answer ‘no’ for fear of what the {interface} would lose in the translation.
some things are better not rendered visually.
no amount of intellectual growth could change where she was coming from – her heart [her gut] always defined whether she was wrong or right in her diagnosis of the situation.
and her heart was always right.
and her factual misdemeanours were not enough to convince me that she was wrong in trusting her heart.
and it tormented her sometimes to know she was right against all empirical evidence to the contrary.
and when she was wrong [or felt she’d made the wrong decision] she would become angry with herself; and then she’d become angry with the world.
and when she was right she would glow with happiness and enjoyment at the fruits of her labour.
and she never once said i told you so
and she never let me cross the line between being who i was and being who my ego sometimes said i was.
she was/is a goddess.
she looks out at me from the image of her face on the inner surface of my space; I cannot bring myself to animate that image, for it is only that – an image of the person I shared my life with.
the {interface} asks: “this font is not available on your system. do you want to use it anyway?”
i answer ‘no’ for fear of what the {interface} would lose in the translation.
some things are better not rendered visually.
9 comments:
Written with purpose in mind. I like the subtle intensity as it unravels.
There is a purpose Jimmy - I only hope the final phase (coming soon) will live up to it.
"some things are better not rendered visually". A wise choice is made unto the interface.
It appears that the interface has no agenda.
Please excuse the lack of communication over the next few days - posts will be published automatically while the Iscariot family spends the Mayday weekend in Glasgow.
Piscesmay you and yours have a wonderful time!
I've been looking at some of the other phases of your project. This is an interesting premise for writing. I'm curious to see what will come next. On this one I like the linkage to Agrippa, that same sense of memory and forgetting, and also reception and interface, what constitutes art. Visceral.
Bye for now,
With such potent memories of her integrity, what need for the color of her eyes?
Consider love. Presupposing free will in others is the requisite for falling in love. It is the existence of a discriminating awareness on the other end that is the source of any possible thrill, attraction, and respect.
——Daniel Rirdan
Edit: "... her factual misdemeanours were not enough to..."
Fixed - Thanks Jeff
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