An Intrinsic Exquisite

we live and

breathe in the mixed up stew of past, future and present

and my puny organizing mind just can't get on top of all that

so I may as well give myuself the benefit of the doubt

she'd written him a postcard, but put it in an envelope so the people he lived with would not have access to her feelings, to the expression of her feelings. the postcard said, "I love you darling. Never mind. I shall be back in six months. I'll give you a ring then."

see what he makes of that, she thought. now he's waiting for me. there was some satisfaction in that, no, a great deal of satisfaction in the thought that he'd be waiting for her, to see what her next move would be, for him to hear the love words coupled with the inevitable and ineluctable distance. but only for a minute

after that she knew he had been able to dive into the immediacy of his surroundings whereas she, curse of the woman, must wander for all time, listening for the sounds of loved ones

he never would call. not now. especially not now that she had presumed the male role of adventurer. I suppose, she thought, that must leave the calls to me, the arrangements. the one with the greatest freedom is the one with the greatest power.

there are more kinds of power than financial and hierarchical. there are infinite modes of power. but somehow, by accident, by short little steps she thought of as choices, she had wandered into a realm, by turns desert, by turns rainforest, a realm in which no one seemed to be able to keep company with her

I am climbing a Mount Everest of desire, she thought.

he's mad because he'd like to be doing something spectacular. he's mad because I am not creating and supporting his nest. he is angry at my hubris.

she could not bear to think that he would never forgive her. because she could not bear to think of him as a hopeless case. love made her have hope and hope forced her to wait