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All the truth, my father told me, but none of the honesty. I recall him stepping rather apologetically from the Galway theater where the book was launched. Rain on the cobblestones. Exit ghost.
They just don’t listen. One little breath of our history is ruining us forever.”
the flotsam of our longings, the jetsam of our truths,
The world was shitty and dark, yes, there was no doubt about it, but so what? That was no great revelation. Maybe something could come about from the people who were interested in repair,
“And we’re just putting the ends together so people can ruin one another. What we wrought…” He recapped the pen with a snap. “Everything gets fixed,” he said, “and we all stay broken.”
the wonder of things is that they were ever created in the first place. Maybe that was the simplicity we needed. Everything is made to be disassembled. Not all of it can be repaired. All there is is the trying.
