We see the rim of the universe in our apocalyptic prayers. We sense the edge of familiar reality, however horrid it may be to us at a given second, taken from eons of time. We fear the cut of the umbilical for its connection to conception. The correction to conceptual connection is traction, as in gaining the momentum to move foward with authority, direction, conviction and determination. If you have the impulse to toe my balls, perhaps the impulse to reconceive life as it may be is not the stretch you think. If I have the independent impulse to guess the same Christmas gift for your oldest that you did, perhaps reconception of the idea of an added guardian of your beloved is not such a stretch either. My point is this: I know you are afraid of the unknown. So am I. But I also know that we love one another to the point of fury, tears, affection and extended orgasms. Not to mention sincere appreciation for the talents, goals and dreams of each other. And my dying curiosity to taste your sauce. (You promised to cook some for me.) And despite my comments to the contrary, I would love to dis football and dine on you all day as a Thanksgiving feast.
(Many of these words come courtesy of Anne Dillard and her book The Writing Life. Sometimes I find it appropos to borrow nouns for my own purpose. My apologies to Ms. Dillard. I recommend her book to all who write.)
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