Work away today, think about tomorrow
Never comes the day for my love and me ...
Justin Hayward, "Never Comes the Day,"
The Moody Blues, On the Threshold of a Dream, released April 2 1969.
The selling season is upon us. Sort of sounds ominous to me: like the killing season, the hunting season, the trapping season. Its none of those things really but its a part of all of those things too. To far to many people giving has become more a sport than a expression of love or caring. It is a part of life, it has been this way since I can remember. It will be this way after I am no longer remembered at all.
You know how some things are there, and have always been there and you don't really think much about how the got there or where they came from? That is a kind of faith I guess. Not in any religious sense but in an acceptance sense. Which I guess is the basis of much in religion too. The first religions were based on the physical world, and an attempt to understand them, that is why the sun was (and is) worshipped. Why it was believed the moon brought mystery, music and love and so was also worshipped. Mighty rivers, biggest trees, mountains, you name it. To the observer these were there at the beginning, they were timeless, were not susceptible to human weakness or frailty. These were the eternals. These were gods. Then came the grapes, and the barleys, the fermenters, and they were then new gods, for they brought release and new candor and feelings of euphoria.
I lost what-ever track I was tracing in my head above to something akin to sleep, something nearing but not reaching rest. I started that last night before another hapless night of tortured half-sleep. In it I half remembered an Edgar Allan Poe dream, er I should say poem. A short one not so hard to remember, but I had read it and memorized it when I was 11, when I could sleep to dream and awake to a day of renewed optimism and promise. When no avenue was yet closed to me and no dream to foolish or unobtainable. I checked when I got up, I remembered the second and final stanza almost accurately. I found after waking from my dreams that my best sleep was between the first and second alarms, that was the period, that 9 minute reluctance to wake is when I dreamed my own dream within a dream.
| | Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now, Thus much let me avow- You are not wrong, who deem That my days have been a dream; Yet if hope has flown away In a night, or in a day, In a vision, or in none, Is it therefore the less gone? All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream. I stand amid the roar Of a surf-tormented shore, And I hold within my hand Grains of the golden sand- How few! yet how they creep Through my fingers to the deep, While I weep- while I weep! O God! can I not grasp Them with a tighter clasp? O God! can I not save One from the pitiless wave? Is all that we see or seem But a dream within a dream? |