There was an entry in my little portabook that I wrote late one night in pencil. I was feeling filled with... uh... universal love? the holy spirit? grace?

The entry was mostly about how the feeling, the feeling that's so strong it's an entity, is impossible to accurately label, and how any label falls far short of the actual thing and has only ever lead to misunderstanding. So I was using nonsense words for it, like pineapple king and burlap football.

The entire thing was pretty poorly written, though, and since it was conveniently written in pencil, I went ahead and erased it. Honestly, had anybody read it, it would have been embarassing.

But it's like, Oh no, you've erased the record of a moment of love! There's never any need to do that!

But no, you know, moments of love are a dime a dozen. Not that they're worthless, but that they happen all the time, and I needn't trick myself that a moment of love is only real if I've captured it in writing. I'm sure I will be writing about them until I die.

But I did leave one part in the book, about the feeling-entity, the punctual wallet-flap:

It's not passionate, it's not flaming, it's not desperate, it's not about needing, it's just... always there. The opposite of never there. Always there. It's all a play, a big grand love-play; a game, in essence, but you can't really stay mad about it. How can you hold a grudge against being a manifest part of love set loose to bump into other manifest parts of love and find as many different ways to love as possible?

So you can see the quality of prose I was working with, as that was the most palatable of it.

But you get the idea, I hope. It's all pointless, but AWESOME.

12:48 a.m. 2003-09-29�