It is a mess. And it's so much more than that.
Long ago, I built a rock wall. Built it with 5 inmates looking to leave jail to dig rocks. One day, a former gun runner whose lungs were gone from sleeping in Third World prisons asked, " Teach, you never read The Quixote?". Embarrassed, I told him I hadn't. " The Russians?." No. When the wall was finished and winter came, I asked him to teach a class on Cervantes, Turgenev, and others. Evidently, smuggling guns to Chiapas and being jailed in stinkholes gives an understanding of humor, faith, doubt, and hope the rest of us guess at. Drug addled prodigy, literate gun runners, immigrants seeking asylum, or a stick house in desperate need of care; catharsis comes at a price few want to risk and thus the risk averse never truly live. 1. The sunlight on broken tiles. Great imagery. 2. The broncy horse that nozzles an abused woman-- in a few words created surprise by joy like a broken prisoner explaining Dulcinea or Turgeniv`s nihilist doctor. 3. The piano score, once again changes the romanticism into more realistic clarity.
Brava, Cara Nicole!
I like your version of happily ever-after very much. Thank you for some lovely moments of respite from the jumble of impatient longings.
"Shabby but still grinning." Oh yes! In regard to my house too. Not so much a house as a home. Doris
Thank you, Peter. And may you find every respite you need in the impatient jumble of longings ~