253 Matches for Matthew Grimm
Sure, I want us to all go back into that scholarly womb, where all ideas, even these, are valid, where it is not a dangerous world for those who stir the ire of the wrong people, where friendship is enough to armor you against the arrows of genteel barbarians, but we can’t. Our love, so often unspoken, sees us through fear and horrors beyond imagining, but you’ve heard paeans sung to love before by better than me. It needs no further canonization, to be subjected to further misinterpretation and gross idolatry, and anyway, it is not the goal. It is just what we do. It is the stuff that girds us, that centers us, that helps us to filter the bad from good. It is the foundation from which we work, but it is not the work. The song is in the change. Some people keep photographs of everything they ever did, litter their little corners of the world with images, like icons to rub or kiss, to invoke dead spirits. Their pictures commemorate weddings and parties and holidays and vacations, reminders of those precious moments when they could escape their lives in order to live. She asked me where were mine, and I couldn’t answer. I guess I just never got the knack. Maybe at one time I just didn’t particularly care to watch myself grow fatter and sadder, but now, I know, it’s something different: These things in the photos, they aren’t real. They are just more illusions, illusions that a better world is possible in the eyes of the young and naïve. They are graven mages, the early, stupid gods we were, who struggled and fussed over petty bullshit that never meant anything—you know, two years ago. In the bright and hopeful eyes scattered across desks and cork-boards and lockers the world over, you can forget that the young and naïve are inevitably broken, or coopted, or duped, or used. They never fail to make me sad. A photo is just now with a footnote. You don’t need an idol or an icon to hold what lives inside you, as long as you know it is there, as long as you use it, the hard essence of it, not the facile, fleeting image. The song is in the change. Life is in the rebellion.Recently Added
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