“Well, look, the change I believe in comes from cultivating mindfulness, equanimity, and compassion. The whole lib shebang, the whole Obama schtick, the wholesale misappropriation of Ghandi’s exhortation to be the change you want to see in the world—oy, outside of a philosophy of rigorous Hindu asceticism it is exactly the platitude it’s become. And that is really the problem with these well-meaning progressives, I mean, the problem other than the problem of their eagerness to return a child-murdering capitalist stooge to the Throne of St. Lincoln for four more years … the problem is an entirely outward-looking vision of transformation; a management-guru spiritualism: five principles, six steps, and seven processes for a better tomorrow, today!”—
Last night I walked back into my room and the artist was sitting naked at my desk putting on foundation and lipstick in my makeup mirror. I asked him what colour lipstick (deep pink) he used and he said, “three different ones”. His lips look beautiful painted, they rival mine. My foundation perfectly matches his skin tone. I watched his fingers work eyeshadow brushes and paint his eye and cheek in a large blue triangular tear. I painted the other side in silver.
Then he painted my face, more gently than anything else he’s ever done to me. He said he saw some kind of Nordic woman warrior in my face. He was intent, patient, when I moved he’d command, “Hold still”. He told me not to talk so I wouldn’t ruin his precision. He worked in silence while I was lulled into a state of calm. He asked me, “This really turns you on, doesn’t it?” and I murmured yes as he traced a brush over my face. My face was hues of blue and purple and gold and silver and then he took a red lipstick and traced lines from my face, down my neck.
Later while I removed makeup from our faces he pulled me naked, backwards into his lap, put himself inside me. I don’t think I ever want to get used to his size, for that first thrust not to be pained and sweet. His makeup stained fingers left rainbows on my body.
Today I delight in and nurse small hurts, a tender throat where he held me down and choked me. His hands are so large they fit almost the whole way around my neck. Impressions of his bite on my neck and breasts, cleavage covered in bruises that will dictate more modest clothing choices for a while.
The backs of my thighs and my ass are covered in bruises and welts from where he took to me with his hands and leather belt, over and over. The largest bruise is where he broke skin and it bled. He flogged all the fear and panic that I’ve been living with for months, out of me. Today I am calmest I’ve ever been. I slept better than I have in months.
I spent what light Saturday sent sweating And learned to cuss cutting grass for women Kind enough to say they couldn’t tell The damned difference between their mowed Lawns and their vacuumed carpets just before Handing over a five dollar bill rolled tighter Than a joint and asking me in to change A few light bulbs. I called those women old Because they wouldn’t move out of a chair Without my help or walk without a hand At the base of their backs. I called them Old, and they must have been; they’re all dead Now, dead and in the earth I once tended. The loneliest people have the earth to love And not one friend their own age—only Mothers to baby them and big sisters to boss Them around, women they want to please And pray for the chance to say please to. I don’t do that kind of work anymore. My job Is to look at the childhood I hated and say I once had something to do with my hands.
Collect my tears in canisters and fire them on cops! Stop and frisk all of them! Plant bloody sparrow hearts in their pockets to serve and protect! We are fragile, our little wings beating against riot shields. Our bones knit together when we link arms. Our bodies migrating for peace.
I want a love that is imprecise, one that sprawls over the bed, spills out windows, disrupting churchgoers as they stroll across the green glow of mowed lawns. I want a love that commandeers the world, a bone- clanking, hydrant-splashing, dog- salivating affair. The ravaged and the ravenous — those lycanthropes of lust.
No candy hearts or delicacies of language. Do not ask me to be demure, clean or to go with the flow. I am electric. I sprinkle poison in the bird feeder, watch blue jays fall like insatiable kisses.
I want fuck and prick and cunt. Those delicious monosyllables of want. I want you in a chair handcuffed and desiring me so badly even your feet are on fire. I want love that is black as a highway on a starless night, black as madness, sable smooth and impenetrable. I want love to write a love poem to me with bad intentions.
Love is my nemesis, my neurosurgeon, the unruly child, the car that won’t steer straight, the boy on a skateboard carving the street into attraction and repulsion.
I want a love that is contradictory, indelible and edible, a love that relishes imperfections and requisitions the moon. A love that isn’t afraid of grief, sadness, the small crimes we commit against ourselves; love as cool as a bruise, sensitive as skin on eyelids, nipples and ears.
I want a love that listens: to rain a half mile before it hits the house; to the feather brushing sound of morning glories as they close their petals for rain’s arrival; the soft shuffle of beetles as they begin a slow crawl across the orchard into the sweet red bellies of fallen apples.
“Realize, Allen, that if all the world were green, there would be no such thing as the color green. Similarly, men cannot know what it is to be together without otherwise knowing what it is to be apart. If all the world were love, then, how could love exist? This is why we turn away from each other on moments of great happiness and closeness. How can we know happiness and closeness without contrasting them, like lights?” — Kerouac to Ginsberg, September 1948
“The point is that all thought is in-existence and unreality, the only reality is green, love. Don’t you see that it is just the whole point of life not to be self conscious? That it must all be green? All love? Would the world then seem incomprehensible? That is an error. The world would seem incomprehensible to the rational faculty which keeps trying to keep us from the living in green, which fragments and makes every thing seem ambiguous and mysterious and many colors. The world and we are green. We are in-existent until we make an absolute decision to close the circle of individual thought entirely and begin to exist in god with absolute unqualified and unconscious understanding of green, love and nothing but love, until a car, money, people, work, things are love, motion is love, thought is love, sex is love. Everything is love. That is what the phrase ‘God is Love’ means.” — Ginsberg to Kerouac, October 1948
“There is a common superstition that ‘self-respect’ is a kind of charm against snakes, something that keeps those who have it locked in some unblighted Eden, out of strange beds, ambivalent conversations, and trouble in general. It does not at all. It has nothing to do with the face of things, but concerns instead a separate peace, a private reconciliation.”—Joan Didion, “on self-respect” (via wwjzd)
“I want someone who will destroy and be destroyed by me. There are many forms of love and affection, some people can spend their whole lives together without knowing each other’s names. Naming is a difficult and time-consuming process; it concerns essences, and it means power. But on the wild nights who can call you home? Only the one who knows your name.”—Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit by Jeanette Winterson (via aequinoctium)
“And I want to be held down. I don’t know what to do with the horrifying freedom that can destroy me. But while I was held down, was I happy? Or was there - and there was - an uncanny, restless something in my happy prison routine? Or was there - and there was - that throbbing something to which I was so accustomed that I thought throbbing was the same as being a person? Isn’t that it? yes, that too…that too…”—Clarice Lispector, The passion according to G.H. (via thewww)
About suffering they were never wrong, The Old Masters; how well, they understood Its human position; how it takes place While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along; How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting For the miraculous birth, there always must be Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating On a pond at the edge of the wood: They never forgot That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer’s horse Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.
In Breughel’s Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry, But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky, had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.
We watched ravens ransack the truck-stop trashcans, plastic blowing across the blacktop out onto the desert, catching on fence-wire, blooms of styrofoam in the tumbleweed. As long as we were not speaking, I wouldn’t hear what I was afraid you’d say. I wouldn’t say the words I’d be sorry for. Doesn’t the wind need to rest? A motley sparrow turned his working, calico eye to the sun, heated the mites then dusted them. Tending to himself, he looked bad.
Liberalism remains. Nothing, no matter how canny, or brutal, or ideologically rigorous, has been enough to combat it. When Mao wrote Combat Liberalism, the most terrifying and total assault on the road to Capitalism was ahead, as was its nightmarish collapse. Whatever has become of China today, the target, and its more and less unwitting aide Liberalism, have grown and distorted in the meantime.
Mao’s list of Liberalism is drawn against existing social relations, with an awareness that it is essentially a hesitation. His list concerns three sets of problems: those of insufficient commitment to revolution, those of insufficient commitment to the party as the agent of that revolution, and the attempts to preserve old relations by inhibiting the new ones flowering in their place. Liberalism, for Mao and for us, is not merely a lack of radicalism against such a serious enemy. If insufficient radicalism were the only problem, we should throw ourselves entirely into our propaganda departments and sloganeering. Liberalism is a cowardly equivocation, one that knows what is to be done but always stops short. It is the fantasy, that if only we hadn’t struggled, we could have tempered our domination. The liberal knows there will be better rations coming, if only we limit our demands to better rations. But it is also the fear of power, and power’s fundamental character, that it is taken, not shared.
If we are to combat capitalism, and imperialism and domination, and the State that ensures them all, the liberalism must also be among our targets. Many of Mao’s prescriptions remain true today, while others are concerned with the production of a historically specific Chinese Communist Party. We cannot be bound by Mao’s prescriptions, but we must build on the awareness within them, that with a new social order comes new liberalisms to combat.
Liberalism today manifests itself in various ways.
To call on abstraction, on principles and doctrines, the mentality that well-drawn maxims are support laws and constitutions. To speak of rights as if the police and the rich are subjecting themselves to their own coercions. To deny that abstraction is another rhetorical trick, to press a people into submitting before their own oppression, this is the first type of liberalism.
To be naive toward, to ignore, deny or obfuscate Struggle as the source of advancement. To speak of things like human rights as if they are inscribed by an eternal order and not fought for and enacted, continuously, by the people, this is the second type of liberalism.
The call to engage with the regime, to propose laws to mitigate the attacks of the ruling class. To become reasonable, when reasonable always means to accept the regime. To celebrate compromise and solidarity with a failed liberal politics as necessary to prevent the domination by Capitalists of a purer strain. To tell ghost stories about the coming reactionary power, to use fear and guilt to demand submission to the voting booth, this is the third type of liberalism.
To say that underneath the violence and exploitation remains a possible utopia, that the state has been betrayed or corrupted. To pretend that Capitalism is anything other than its application, that exploitation is only the effect of incomplete project, to say finally that capitalism has not gone far enough, this is the fourth type of liberalism.
The celebration of reactionary symbolism, cheap reverence of nationalist flags and soldiers and police and constitutions, as if violating these is a greater violence than the system itself. The refusal to acknowledge that these are the devices of the enemy, this is the fifth type of liberalism.
To insist on non-violence and traditional modes of protest, to deify the tactics of different struggles until all others are forbidden, to negate struggle because it shows itself as struggle, and to prefer the peace of police brutality, imperialist aggression and mass exploitation to the fight against it, this is the sixth type of liberalism.
To revive universal guilt by claiming that this or that act will make revolutionaries as bad as their oppressors, to see protest or struggle as an act of moral absolution and superiority, this is the seventh type of liberalism.
The notion of the first-world, that oppression in the countries with the wealthiest capitalists is different from oppressions elsewhere. The shock, that “it can happen here”, when it has been happening all along, this is the eighth type of liberalism.
To claim that those who struggle are idealistic, to be ashamed of your political stance and then to immediately confirm the feeling by claiming that childish or idealistic are something to be. To delight at the presence of leftists, that one can finally be the responsible, rightist party. To venerate reactionary ideologies as somehow more serious, this is the ninth type of liberalism.
To complain that they are trying to destroy you and your comrades, to divest and imprison you, to erase you, to take everything from you, to deny that your enemy will act like your enemy. To cry about hypocrisy, accepting the lies of the enemy as a ground to fight over, to demand consistency or fairness when the regime is perfectly consistent in its domination, exploitation and control, this is the tenth type of liberalism.
To talk about crimes and criminals, to call your enemy madmen and monsters and sinners and barbarians, the slurs composed for the millions in captivity and slavery, this is the eleventh type of liberalism.
— — —
We should return for a moment to Mao, and his First Type of Liberal:
“To let things slide for the sake of peace and friendship when a person has clearly gone wrong, and refrain from principled argument because he is an old acquaintance, a fellow townsman, a schoolmate, a close friend, a loved one, an old colleague or old subordinate. Or to touch on the matter lightly instead of going into it thoroughly, so as to keep on good terms. The result is that both the organization and the individual are harmed. This is one type of liberalism.”
It is still important that criticism and engagement escape the bounds of a traditional social order, but the death of the concepts of kin, of solidarity and affiliation, has been taken up again by Capital’s revolutionary desires. It is the overthrow of social relationships and replacing them with direct exploitation that defines Capitalism. We are not bound to respond in kind, and with our new modes of relating, we should recognize where we have been productive — struggle has produced new kin, and our friends have become our comrades, in perhaps a greater sense than could be said earlier. We must let our kin come to define our struggle, and see in our kin, our comrades. Mao was right that we should not be cowardly with those we love, but it is because kin have no need for cowardice around each other. Their bond is before politics. They can engage each other absolutely, without the homeless, precarious fear that camaraderie will be dissolved by divergent engagements with the struggle. To work against our kinship, our most powerful weapon and the model for our future, is the final type of liberalism.
Those hailing Hitchens’ greatness are engaged in a very public, affirmative, politically consequential effort to depict him as someone worthy of homage. That’s fine: Hitchens, like most people, did have admirable traits, impressive accomplishments, genuine talents and a periodic willingness to expose himself to danger to report on issues about which he was writing. But demanding in the name of politeness or civility that none of that be balanced or refuted by other facts is to demand a monopoly on how a consequential figure is remembered, to demand a license to propagandize — exactly what was done when the awful, power-worshipping TV host, Tim Russert, died, and we were all supposed to pretend that we had lost some Great Journalist, a pretense that had the distorting effect of equating Russert’s attributes of mindless subservience to the powerful with Good Journalism (ironically, Hitchens was the last person who would honor the etiquette rules being invoked on his behalf: he savaged (perfectly appropriately) Mother Theresa and Princess Diana, among others, upon their death, even as millions mourned them).
There’s one other aspect to the adulation of Hitchens that’s quite revealing. There seems to be this sense that his excellent facility with prose excuses his sins. Part of that is the by-product of America’s refusal to come to terms with just how heinous and destructive was the attack on Iraq. That act of aggression is still viewed as a mere run-of-the-mill “mistake” — hey, we all make them, so we shouldn’t hold it against Hitch – rather than what it is: the generation’s worst political crime, one for which he remained fully unrepentant and even proud. But what these paeans to Hitchens reflect even more so is the warped values of our political and media culture: once someone is sufficiently embedded within that circle, they are intrinsically worthy of admiration and respect, no matter what it is that they actually do
Before we wed we whispered like thieves for we had stolen and renamed the sacrament. No one knew us. Our attic flat was unheated, furniture used. We’d fall asleep with candles blazing. By morning the wine was frozen. Our neighbors were drunks and transvestites. The man next door beat his wife. But we loved them. They were part of us and we could see them clearly from our second-storey window across from the Detox Center. Laying only in the raiment of our skins we would listen for their cries above the sirens.
I get into bed with it, and spring the scarab legs of its locks. Inside, the stacked, shy wealth of his print— he could not write in script, so the pages are sturdy with the beamwork of printedness, WENT TO LOOK AT A CAR, DAD IN A GOOD MOOD AT DINNER, WENT TO TRY OUT SOME NEW TENNIS RACQUETS, LUNCH WITH MOM, life of ease— except when he spun his father’s DeSoto on the ice, and a young tree whirled up to the hood, throwing up her arms—until LOIS. PLAYED TENNIS, WITH LOIS, LUNCH WITH MOM AND LOIS, LOIS LIKED THE CAR, DRIVING WITH LOIS, LONG DRIVE WITH LOIS. And then, LOIS! I CAN’T BELIEVE IT! SHE IS SO GOOD, SO SWEET, SO GENEROUS, I HAVE NEVER, WHAT HAVE I EVER DONE TO DESERVE SUCH A GIRL? Between the dark legs of the capitals, moonlight, soft tines of the printed letter gentled apart, nectar drawn from serif, the self of the grown boy pouring out, the heart’s charge, the fresh man kneeling in pine-needle weave, worshiping her. It was my father good, it was my father grateful, it was my father dead, who had left me these small structures of his young brain— he wanted me to know him, he wanted someone to know him.
“Kyle Bella: Finally, is there one piece of advice you feel is most valuable that you could offer to anyone involved in any ongoing social or political movement?
Judith Butler: I don’t know what I can give. But I wrote a book on Antigone once. And the problem with Antigone is that she stood up to the despot Creon, but in such a way that she ended up dying. So she bought her defiance with her death. The real question I ended up asking, after studying that play for some time, was, “What would it mean for Antigone to have stood up to Creon and lived?” And the only way she could have lived is if she had had a serious social movement with her. If she arrived with a social movement to take down the despot, maybe it would have taken 18 days only, like in Egypt. It’s really important to be able to re-situate one’s rage and destitution in the context of a social movement.”—Bodies in Alliance: Gender Theorist Judith Butler on the Occupy and SlutWalk Movements | Truthout
It was the summer I fucked up the summer fucked up me
fucked up a fuck-up in the summer & I spent time laying under stars too much time I wasted the stars you lied to me under the stars & the summer was endless the summer endless it was an endless summer
endless & I said things like “If I ever see you again”
but I’ll never see you again I never saw you again I made sure of that & I circled the lake I went in circles the lake was endless it was summer I fucked up too much time & I never saw you again & I
circled & it was endless & the stars lied to me the summer
light moving so slowly I saw the summer light move endless & when I see you the trees will cluster green rage green trees raging with love endless love & I’ll never see you again I made sure of that
wasted under the stars the slow summer light the endless fuck-up
& you never again you lovely you summer you everything that is now never again whatever that may be the rage I loved me under the stars then & now endless wasting away me haze wandering around endless
haze it was endless too much time & you lied to me & I said things like
I can’t describe the air on my skin can you can you please I know it was important & the light from stars moved so slowly & you moved off forever how can you save everything everything important endless
summer light the fuck-up the lake a circle circling the lake
how can you save everything how can I answer you the light of summer stars I’m sorry for my light the endlessness of my endless & my fuck-up the me that is now looking back & thinking & this summer circling
She came to sex as she’d come to gin. Five years in the convent, what did she know about gin? Sister Emmanuel said the Devil himself was suckled on it, and after her third drink in the Red Kilt she knew he was inside her like a crazed Wizard of Oz, pushing and pumping her levers and gears. Each time she brought the glass to her lips, Sister’s voice whispered, “You couldn’t lift one finger, not one pinky of one hand if not for the Love of God.” But she was twenty-five and didn’t know anything about love. She knew she wasn’t holy, or chaste, or even sorry. And she knew she was alone when the man called her beautiful, when the gin said Baby, relax, enjoy it while you can.
“The appeal of the drone’s eye is precisely that it does not see everything, because it carries no understanding of the things it records. The experts who are required to imagine Afghanistan or Pakistan traverse those spaces in a manner similar to the drones, on their own preprogrammed missions where every little thing becomes a target on which to pin their policies.”—
One of the most interesting aspects to the piece was a series of comparisons between Islamicphobic commentary and the old anti-Semitic writings found in the Nazi journal, Der Stuermer. The list was compiled by journalist Colm O Broin over at his blog, and is as follows:
Muslims/Jews have a religious duty to conquer the world. ”Islam understands its earthly mission to extend the law of Allah over the world by force.” Robert Spencer. ”Do you not know that the God of the Old Testament orders the Jews to consume and enslave the peoples of the earth?” Julius Streicher.
The Left enables Muslims/Jews.
“The principal organs of the Left…has consistently been warm and welcoming toward Islamic supremacism.” Robert Spencer. ”The communists pave the way for him (the Jew).” Julius Streicher.
Governments do nothing to stop Muslims/Jews.
“FDI* acts against the treason being committed by national, state, and local government officials…in their capitulation to the global jihad and Islamic supremacism.”(Freedom Defense Initiative, Robert Spencer/Pamela Geller organisation). ”The government allows the Jew to do as he pleases. The people expect action to be taken.” Julius Streicher.
Muslims/Jews cannot be trusted.
“When one is under pressure, one may lie in order to protect the religion, this is taught in the Qur’an.” Robert Spencer.
“We may lie and cheat Gentiles. In the Talmud it says: It is permitted for Jews to cheat Gentiles.” From The Toadstool, children’s book published by Julius Streicher.
Recognizing the true nature of Muslims/Jews can be difficult.
“There is no reliable way for American authorities to distinguish jihadists and potential jihadists from peaceful Muslims.” Robert Spencer. ”Just as it is often hard to tell a toadstool from an edible mushroom, so too it is often very hard to recognize the Jew as a swindler and criminal.” From The Toadstool, children’s book published by Julius Streicher.
The evidence against Muslims/Jews is in their holy books.
“What exactly is ‘hate speech’ about quoting Qur’an verses and then showing Muslim preachers using those verses to exhort people to commit acts of violence, as well as violent acts committed by Muslims inspired by those verses and others?” Robert Spencer.
“In Der Stuermer no editorial appeared, written by me or written by anyone of my main co-workers, in which I did not include quotations from the ancient history of the Jews, from the Old Testament, or from Jewish historical works of recent times.” Julius Streicher.
Islamic/Jewish texts encourage violence against non-believers.
“And slay them wherever ye find them, and drive them out of the places whence they drove you out, for persecution is worse than slaughter… — 2:191.” Koranic verse quoted by Robert Spencer on Jihadwatch.org.
“And when the Lord your God has delivered them over to you and you have defeated them, then you must destroy them totally: men and women and children, even the animals. (Deuteronomy 7:2.).” Biblical verse quoted by Julius Streicher in Der Stuermer.
Christianity is peaceful while Islam/Judaism is violent.
“There is no Muslim version of ‘love your enemies, pray for those who persecute you’ or ‘if anyone strikes you on the right cheek turn to him the other also’.”Robert Spencer.
“The Jew is not being taught, like we are, such texts as, ‘Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself’, or ‘If you are smitten on the left cheek, offer then your right one’.” Julius Streicher.
Muslims/Jews are uniquely violent.
“(Islam) is the only major world religion with a developed doctrine and tradition of warfare against unbelievers.” Robert Spencer.
“o other people in the world has such prophecies. No other people would dare to say that it was chosen to murder and destroy the other peoples and steal their possessions.” Julius Streicher.
Racism; same lunatic beliefs, just cut and paste the people.
“Mustafa, we walk behind your body with our heads bowed and eyes full of tears. We cherish you, because you died for throwing stones and we did not.”—Israeli anarchist Jonathan Pollack on the death of Mustafa Tamimi. A beautiful, desperately sad tribute (click through to read). The death of a stone-thrower - Haaretz Daily Newspaper | Israel News Jonathan was injured in 2005 when an Israeli soldier shot him in the head with a teargas canister from an M-16, from a distance of approximately thirty meters at a protest against the Wall in the West Bank village of Bil’in. This left him with two internal brain hemorrhages and a wound requiring 23 stitches. Mustafa died of a similar injury.
Interesting to note that people don’t understand fiction as magic. A piece of fiction is a spell. I hear people expressing their understanding (or parroting other’s understanding) of fiction as “transportive” but you must all secretly know that it isn’t true. It’s not you who is transported. Fiction is an act of conjuration. Evocation. It’s an invitation, and perhaps something is transported but it isn’t you. It’s more accurate to say that something has been let in. What have you let inside you? What have you invited in?
A library is a bush of ghosts and you swallow them, you well read men and women, you swallow all the ghosts and they go inside you and stay there. You do not know it but you are haunted by the books you’ve read. You’re a mansion on a hill with a clouded night-time backdrop and there’s lightning and the black roots of a half-dead tree, something like a claw. Or a map. It’s funny how all roads lead to death and I wonder what happens, when you die, to all the ghosts. You at the River Styx, vomiting into the water and all the ghosts like fishes, like spectral guppies in the black. The cold, black water, barely disturbed, and now you’re empty by the shore.
1 That glass was it filled with alcohol, water, or light
At ten I turned you into a religion
The solitary four-foot priest of you, I kept the litter manger candle burning, I kept your black half-inch of scripture in the hiding place
Destroyer of the world
2 In which city was it, in fourth or fifth grade, Mother read in the newspaper you’d be appearing and dressed me up in suit and little tie and took me I wanted to run to you—who were all these people?— I sat alone beaming at you who could not meet my eyes, and after you shyly approached and shook my hand
3 If I’m walking the streets of a city covering every sqaure inch of the continent all its lights out and empty of people, even then you are there
If I’m walking the streets overwhelmed with this love for the living
I will still be a blizzard at sea
Since you left me at eight I have always been lonely
star-far from the person right next to me, but
closer to me than me bones to you
you are there
4 It’s 1963 again, the old Minneapolis airport so vast to me, and I am running after the long flight alone I am running into your huge arms— Now I am forty-five now and I am dreaming we are together again we are both forty-five and I have you all to myself this time, and we are walking together we’re walking down a glowing-blue tunnel we are traveling somewhere together alone God knows where we are going, and who cares we’re together, walking and happily talking and laughing, and breathing.