Adding as a suffix to "Or" ( אור ) will form "Orly" which means "a light for me" and is usually feminine.
The above was the name that Melissa and I wanted to name our daughter if the baby was a girl. I mean...obviously. That actually was a relatively stupid sentence. If our daughter was a girl, However these days when we are in the midst of political correctness in uncontrolled overdrive I would think that one could reinterpret the first sentence in all sorts of way.
I was sick yesterday and I actually thought I wasn't really that sick but as I feel better today I must have been sick. I have a tendency to downplay how I feel when I feel sick or I am in pain. I am not sure why. It is not that I don't have a suspicion but I can't be sure. Well...if I decided to be sure I would be sure but I haven't decided to be sure. I think it is because my mother didn't take my illnesses too seriously.
Friday, October 19, 2012
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Well here I am home sick
. Am i really sick? Yes I am. Sick enough to be home? I don't know what that is any longer. But here I am in bed with intermittent sneezing. Congestion. Aches. Blech. Wrote a useless bit of drivel for the coffee party and listened to the Yankees lose to Detroit. Why not. Detroit has been through enough and the city could use some excitement.
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
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There are plans we didn't make that I think we did
There are plans we didn't make that I think we did make and as time goes on I am not at all sure of many things.
I mentioned my regret at not keeping a diary. Jotting down little things that when they occur are meaningless and collect substance and importance as they grow old. What we had for dinner. What day we made love. How as it the love making. What the weather was like. Who I cheated on Melissa with. I did that. Why. I am not sure now. I think it was because we did not have the most free flowing and extemporaneous sex life. Maybe. Probably. maybe not. Of course not. But yes indeed. Who the fuck knows actually.
As for the meories I do have why do I have them? Why these and not others. What about those events or places were so adhesive that they are still stuck to the inside of my skull. Would these same events have remained if we had just divorced? Would they. Hell if I know.
I mentioned my regret at not keeping a diary. Jotting down little things that when they occur are meaningless and collect substance and importance as they grow old. What we had for dinner. What day we made love. How as it the love making. What the weather was like. Who I cheated on Melissa with. I did that. Why. I am not sure now. I think it was because we did not have the most free flowing and extemporaneous sex life. Maybe. Probably. maybe not. Of course not. But yes indeed. Who the fuck knows actually.
As for the meories I do have why do I have them? Why these and not others. What about those events or places were so adhesive that they are still stuck to the inside of my skull. Would these same events have remained if we had just divorced? Would they. Hell if I know.
.JPG)
I have never kept a diary.
I am not going to fight the font. It wants to be whatever this is and that is fine.
I have never kept a diary. I now think that may have been a mistake but as for things one can correct writing a diary in reverse is not one that I believe can be accomplished. I wish I had. I do. If I had I would have more of her to remember, Melissa. My wife. There have been other wives. I have been married numerous times. Too many. marriages should not be a hobby. Marriages are not projects. Or maybe they are. I think they failed. The ones not involving Melissa because I discovered that I really didn't have enough love left to accomplish any level of outright devotional mesmerization. Actually it was today as I strolled down Kissena Boulevard that I came to that conclusion. Every time I got involved it was with a not-Melissa. I had no idea I was in love that much. I really didn't. I will not use youth as an excuse. It is a viable one but I am not going to use it. When life was shorter twenty was middle age. That was probably in the Middle Ages. So one could be middle aged in the middle ages.
It is now difficult to write what I think I should write. Or what wants to be written about. I would rather yell it or cry it or scream it or whisper it to a tree or a shadow. I would rather kneel down in the desert and scrape my bare knees in the sand and say to the silence all these things. I want to bend down in front of me and ask of the unforgiving part of me to be forgiven but I do not think I will. I do not think I deserve it. Well, I know I don't deserve it. Which doesn't mean that people who don't deserve to be forgiven aren't forgiven. Why not if it makes them feel better. That's the whole last rites thing isn't it?
See..I haven't written anything yet. I am safe for now. But I got close and that isn't bad.
Oh....I fought the font.
I have never kept a diary. I now think that may have been a mistake but as for things one can correct writing a diary in reverse is not one that I believe can be accomplished. I wish I had. I do. If I had I would have more of her to remember, Melissa. My wife. There have been other wives. I have been married numerous times. Too many. marriages should not be a hobby. Marriages are not projects. Or maybe they are. I think they failed. The ones not involving Melissa because I discovered that I really didn't have enough love left to accomplish any level of outright devotional mesmerization. Actually it was today as I strolled down Kissena Boulevard that I came to that conclusion. Every time I got involved it was with a not-Melissa. I had no idea I was in love that much. I really didn't. I will not use youth as an excuse. It is a viable one but I am not going to use it. When life was shorter twenty was middle age. That was probably in the Middle Ages. So one could be middle aged in the middle ages.
It is now difficult to write what I think I should write. Or what wants to be written about. I would rather yell it or cry it or scream it or whisper it to a tree or a shadow. I would rather kneel down in the desert and scrape my bare knees in the sand and say to the silence all these things. I want to bend down in front of me and ask of the unforgiving part of me to be forgiven but I do not think I will. I do not think I deserve it. Well, I know I don't deserve it. Which doesn't mean that people who don't deserve to be forgiven aren't forgiven. Why not if it makes them feel better. That's the whole last rites thing isn't it?
See..I haven't written anything yet. I am safe for now. But I got close and that isn't bad.
Oh....I fought the font.
Oct. 16, 2012 Pink underpants
Oct. 16, 2012
Pink underpants. Loose cotton pink underpants and nothing else on. Sitting against ourt headboard reading something. She has her glasses on. Her knees are up and she is leaning the book or the pad against them. Her hair, which was shorter, has grown a buit and needs a clip to hold part of it out of her face, She has on glasses. Wire frames. She is intently looking at or reading the book or pad. It is mid day. On a Sunday I would think think. The windows are open. The breeze is blowing in. The dogs, Pip and Sam, are on the bed. Pip is a schnauzer and Sam is a poodle. It is 1969 or 70 I think. It is sunny. The sky is blue and the other tower of our apartment building takes up just a small part of the right part of the windows. Her face is in concentration. Her look is intent as she deals with the pad or book. She is wearing nothing else except those underpants I mention a number of sentences back. We are young. She is young. I think I am 22. If that is so then she is 22. Twenty-two is young isn't it? She has (in the memory) small breasts. She had small breasts. She had a scar on one tow and another on her head right behind the hairline. Her was brown. Is brown in the memory. I am happy. I remember being content. Content is happy isn't it. It was a great moment and IO had no idea at the time that it was but part of me must have because I still have that memory and there are hundreds of thousands I do not have. I have this now. It appears often. It appears when I am not trying hard to concentrate on life in the present. It shows up often. At lunch when I am not at work it arrives as I open the door and walk out on to the street. I think that is because the outdoors reminds me of her. Not a city street but anything that has as part of the scene something green and growing. Or birds. Or squirrels. Or bugs. Or dirt. Or trees.
Pink underpants. Loose cotton pink underpants and nothing else on. Sitting against ourt headboard reading something. She has her glasses on. Her knees are up and she is leaning the book or the pad against them. Her hair, which was shorter, has grown a buit and needs a clip to hold part of it out of her face, She has on glasses. Wire frames. She is intently looking at or reading the book or pad. It is mid day. On a Sunday I would think think. The windows are open. The breeze is blowing in. The dogs, Pip and Sam, are on the bed. Pip is a schnauzer and Sam is a poodle. It is 1969 or 70 I think. It is sunny. The sky is blue and the other tower of our apartment building takes up just a small part of the right part of the windows. Her face is in concentration. Her look is intent as she deals with the pad or book. She is wearing nothing else except those underpants I mention a number of sentences back. We are young. She is young. I think I am 22. If that is so then she is 22. Twenty-two is young isn't it? She has (in the memory) small breasts. She had small breasts. She had a scar on one tow and another on her head right behind the hairline. Her was brown. Is brown in the memory. I am happy. I remember being content. Content is happy isn't it. It was a great moment and IO had no idea at the time that it was but part of me must have because I still have that memory and there are hundreds of thousands I do not have. I have this now. It appears often. It appears when I am not trying hard to concentrate on life in the present. It shows up often. At lunch when I am not at work it arrives as I open the door and walk out on to the street. I think that is because the outdoors reminds me of her. Not a city street but anything that has as part of the scene something green and growing. Or birds. Or squirrels. Or bugs. Or dirt. Or trees.
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