I think I’m entering a new phase. Things that didn’t bother me before, or that I didn’t notice, or that I ignored, about Andrew, are starting to bug and frustrate me. It’s weird. It’s like I can’t figure out if he’s changed, if I’ve changed, if we both have, or what. I mean, it’s good for me in that I’m getting stuff out of my system, and I’m learning, and my eyes are opening. It’s bad in that I haven’t necessarily been very nice to him the last while, and while he deserves to know stuff, he doesn’t deserve how he’s been told on some occasions. I’m working on that. Amazing how much relationships have to teach you, even after they’re over, or in transition.
I am also learning lots of me stuff. What I like, what I want, what I’ve done in the past that I won’t do again. I suspect it won’t make it any easier to find me a man (which, I’m sure, would make my mother happier than anything short of presenting her with grandkids), but hey, maybe it’ll make it easier to avoid making mistakes.
In New Orleans, hospital evacuations had to be halted due to the personnel and helicopters being sniped at. Rats are gnawing corpses that are left in the streets. The military is expected to arrive some time next WEEK.
I have been thinking a lot about this poem recently.
The Second Coming
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all convictions, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
— WB Yeats