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"The stories we sit up late to hear are love stories. It seems we cannot know enough about this riddle of our lives. We go back to the same scenes, the same words, trying to scrape out the meaning. Nothing could be more familiar than love. Nothing else eludes us so completely . . . My search for you, your search for me, is a search after something that cannot be found. Only the impossible is worth the effort . . . It has a wildness in it & a glory that we want more than life itself. Love never counts the cost, to itself or others & nothing is as cruel as love. There is no love that does not pierce the hands & feet.
Merely human love does not satisfy us, though we settle for it. It is an encampment on the edge of the wilderness & we light the fire & turn up the lamp & tell stories til night of those loves lost &won.
The wilderness is not tamed. It waits - beautiful & terrible – beyond the reach of the campfire. Now & again, someone gets up to leave, forced to read the map of themselves, hoping that the treasure is really there. A record of their journey comes back to us in note form, sometimes just a note in a dead man's pocket."
Jeannette Winterson
Power Book
DEAD MAN'S POCKET
When I was much younger than my obsession with love, I lived in Brooklyn with my parents. We would visit the Central Park Zoo & I loved the seal pool. I loved their hard slippery bodies & the way they slapped themselves down onto the platform, lifting their heads up to the sun, their cat-like whiskers moving as they sniffed at the air. I also loved the squirrels because they could run free & I loved the helium balloons for all the obvious reasons & we all know what happens to them. There probably is not anything like buying a balloon for your child if you want to ensure some small amount of post traumatic stress.
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