There is no beginning.
In the beginning holds the presupposition of coming out of no beginning. This is good since no beginning holds the dichotomous contention that there is no end. So there is no beginning. Ok, I need a drink. Cliché!
Is this the face that launched 1,000 tuna boats into foggy waters…?
Actually I am drinking: a Guatemalan coffee with honey and cinnamon and half-and-half in it. I don’t know whether the beans come from Guatemala but have no reason to doubt. It tastes Central American, my coffee of choice. Not sure about the honey component but the cinnamon renders this a Viennese coffee, which will be appropriate as I prepare for my flight to Vienna at the end of the month. So this must be a Guatemalan Viennese or Viennese Guatemalan coffee. Whatever, yummm. It is my morning, early afternoon, and I’m drinking it at the net cafe where the bird crashed into one of the windows on the weekend.
There’s someone sitting near me who doesn’t know it but I could fall in love there. No, not in Central America. And not in lust. In those eyes behind those meditations. In and with that particular persona. Or does someone know it? If body language speaks, if toes could talk, someone wants me to fall in love. Imagine having someone look at you while they are writing about you and throwing it all out there before a global audience.
One of my former students is sitting across the room. I’ve tried to reach him in the past, offered academic guidance as he recently switched majors and he was interested in our discussion, but he remains communicatively aloof. He’s all Southern and its seeming gentility. I can’t remember his name.
This talk is vagueries. Innuendos. Seeing through a glass darkly. Gosh, I cherish cliché. Expect cliché. My cat is cliché. Cute, curious cliché. Ahh, I adore alliteration! Cliché and alliteration have done it: they have survived the compulsions of time and piqued the curious for all eternity. Hmmm…. have they really? What is all eternity from this [dis]advantage point but a curious blurrr…?
When you drop your shoes off and wiggle your toes, headphones on, Internet up, and your copy of The Fountainhead secure in your left hand because let’s face it we are left-handed, I remain blissfully never married, and relish the obtuseness of infatuation. If you could read my mind, love.