Love in the Time of Invariable Terror

Getting struck by a motor vehicle is my worst fear. The news from Nice is universally terrifying and I make no special claim to dread. The is not the time for philosophizing about the internal combustion engine but I can’t resist pointing out trucks and cars can be easily engineered to prevent running over human beings. And now that I’ve broken my vow to avoid pontificating I’ll stop for the dead need us to circle our minds around love just as children place their hands around a ball. It’s easy to forget that love is a practice and more—a thirst perhaps, but never a habit. All things not habits are devoted roundly and magnifying. Remember hate is square. A white truck, a tank, a naval destroyer are never “of or pertaining to” our rounded angels.

I cannot give up on love.

Love is a few flickering points like the starlings at dusk. One wants to hold them, bear them up somehow. Impossible. So the mind paints them with its tiny brushes, carries them inside. In dreams we love every bird. Even the homely ones.

I cannot give up on love.

Perhaps everything I’ve wished for has belonged to someone else. Then I will love the empty circle.

Grieving for the victims of Nice…

 

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