words and tables
I preoccupied my life with a herd of tasks from the stimulating to the mundane and all the sublime that still lays confused in between. I met great people and said to myself that this city, no this nation, no this council of six men was not only my home but my purpose. To begin something, something that would rekindle art and science again after centuries of irreconcilability. How they could be match and box and start a fire that would enlighten us all. That this would be a place where girls like you and boys like me would flock. And we'd no longer be unique but remembered as ones who were once a few. I think it is a worthy cause. I think it is an attainable cause. But I also think that I am a worthy cause. And that is my struggle but I have not found my space of solitude yet. You give me faith that between the seven colors of the rainbow there are other, sharper, more fierce, self reflecting colors that I'd find in you and would liberate me (and you?) of the impossible trivial pursuit of the pot of gold. No I do not want to retire at 40. I want to die on my desk typing words that are read in my service or collapse in a wood shop making a table that is dined on after my funeral. I want to learn and produce. I want to leave this world with colors that even leprechauns didn't fathom.