...
Even though I continue to cringe when I listen to Watts slipping manly sophistry into his lectures, he does, this so very long after his death, continue to help me order the tornadic debris in here. Each corpuscle has an aura I've knocked loose and sprayed from its mooring across my heartscape like the horseshoe nails that were on my barn shelf but landed in several neighboring counties.
Still. There's value in that, isn't there?
How can I blame him failing in his duty to make it apparent to you when he did such a fantastically much better job of it than I have so far? When he, at least, can still console me and how many others? Still call to the essential bits and help us keep the faith on our way to the grave?
Is it possible he never did actually see but only had such a splendid intellectual grasp he retains even this much power? Could that be? Are those left brains that gleamingly clever? Could this be why my teacher put that much energy into me?
Surely not.
Look at this mess.
Women have never been good for this because we care too much for relating with you to relate it to you, but that very well could be the reason it's this crucial now.
Me? My fucking deathless love for your happiness?
Surely not.
Surely not that....
always and any time....
