An invisible cloak, The poetry of hands, 31
An area of vorticity

To great clouds, light and free


For Mary Alice who loved Goodnight Irene and the memory of hearing Paulo on the guitar and Tom singing to her . . . we'll see you in our dreams / New Jersey / Nov. 2009

In the wonderful book The Leopard, Don Fabrizio reflects on his imminent death:

“With the slightest effort of attention he would notice at all other times too the rustling of the grains of sands as they slid lightly away, the instants of time escaping from his mind and leaving him for ever. But this sensation was not, at first, linked to any physical discomfort. On the contrary, this imperceptible loss of vitality was itself the proof, the condition so to say, of a sense of living; and for him, accustomed to scrutinizing limitless outer space and to probing vast inner abysses, the sensation was in no way disagreeable; this continuous whittling away of his personality seemed linked to a vague presage of the rebuilding elsewhere of a personality (thanks be to God) less conscious and yet broader. Those tiny grains of sand were not lost; they were vanishing, but accumulating elsewhere to cement some more lasting pile. Though 'pile,' he had reflected, was not the exact word for that matter. They were more like the tiny particles of watery vapor exhaled from a narrow pond, then mounting into the sky to great clouds, light and free.”   ~ Giuseppe di Lampedusa

I love this idea of things sliding away here and being rebuilt elsewhere as we age. It makes me wonder ... when people die do they also take little particles of those that they love with them to a new rebuilding? It would explain some of the feelings of loss -- as if parts of yourself are falling away.


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