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An age and a faith moving into transition
Sep. 6th, 2009 09:40 pm
Currently at Toronto Pearson: 19. High today: 23.
Back up to the cottage on Friday for the first time since I got the water going in July; back down yesterday, to stay until May or June ... enough time for a baby to come. Time isn't only shorter than when I was a kid, it's differently shaped. Maybe it just is shaped. When I was a kid, there's this stretch of time and its end. The rest is just later.
Got the hot water going this time. And then dismantled the plumbing for the long cold lonely winter. Putting the shutters on filled me with just as much despair as it did when I was a kid, which was surprising, because when I was a kid, next summer didn't exist. Then again, next summer exists now, but next fall does, too, which makes things worse, in its own way. And there's a new dark cloud: there are other things I care about, just (about?) as deeply, in the rest of the year now. (What do I care about more, philosophy or the water and the still night and the mist shrinking with the shadows and the weasel in the abandoned beaver lodge in the not-quite-abandoned boathouse? They're not two different things, or they shouldn't be, at their best. We love philosophy because we love life, as Mallin says; we love philosophy because she looks so much like life.) There are too many things to care about, and I can't tend to them all! That's Heidegger's Angst. It's not bad; it's painful and it's beautiful and it's life.
When you get old enough, does it change again, and time just cycles around in front of you while you sit there and watch? I feel like I've said that before. You push the rock up the hill. The rock rolls down the hill. You push the rock up the hill and the rock rolls down the hill. You push the rock up the hill and the rock rolls down the hill and you push the rock up the hill and the rock rolls down the hill and so on. You are pushing the rock up the hill that is rolling down the hill. I have a list of 30 things to fix at the cottage next year. Next year I'm going to stay up there from the day after the July long weekend to the day before the August long weekend. Please remind me.
In the last seven days, the Blue Jays have scored eight runs in an inning three times. They haven't scored eight runs in any other game over that period. They hadn't scored eight runs in a game for the week before that, either. Today in major league baseball, two hitters were hit in the head with the bases loaded. One of them--with the head belonging to Micah Owings, the pitcher who makes you wonder how much better a hitter than a pitcher you need to be before they quit sending you out to pitch--drove in the winning run in the twelfth inning. The other was a Blue Jay, Randy Ruiz, a 31-year-old getting his shot not to be a career minor-leaguer, during today's eight-run inning, during which there were also three bases-loaded walks. I was thinking, on my way to the train station, slightly delayed to see if Ruiz was going to leave on his own steam, how it's funny that I felt like he was OK when I saw that he'd been hit in the mouth, might have spat out a tooth with a stream of blood, and then an ambulance careened down the street and as I was watching it wobble away I heard desperate tires screech and pulled my focus back just in time to see a car slide hard into the side of a van that was turning left. Second time in the last two weeks that I've looked between the screech and the crash. Cell phones, I suppose. I'd only ever seen one crash before in my life. That was at a crosswalk. Gotta watch those crosswalks, I've always thought; they're death traps. The catcher on one of my baseball teams had his legs broken at a crosswalk.
Back up to the cottage on Friday for the first time since I got the water going in July; back down yesterday, to stay until May or June ... enough time for a baby to come. Time isn't only shorter than when I was a kid, it's differently shaped. Maybe it just is shaped. When I was a kid, there's this stretch of time and its end. The rest is just later.
Got the hot water going this time. And then dismantled the plumbing for the long cold lonely winter. Putting the shutters on filled me with just as much despair as it did when I was a kid, which was surprising, because when I was a kid, next summer didn't exist. Then again, next summer exists now, but next fall does, too, which makes things worse, in its own way. And there's a new dark cloud: there are other things I care about, just (about?) as deeply, in the rest of the year now. (What do I care about more, philosophy or the water and the still night and the mist shrinking with the shadows and the weasel in the abandoned beaver lodge in the not-quite-abandoned boathouse? They're not two different things, or they shouldn't be, at their best. We love philosophy because we love life, as Mallin says; we love philosophy because she looks so much like life.) There are too many things to care about, and I can't tend to them all! That's Heidegger's Angst. It's not bad; it's painful and it's beautiful and it's life.
When you get old enough, does it change again, and time just cycles around in front of you while you sit there and watch? I feel like I've said that before. You push the rock up the hill. The rock rolls down the hill. You push the rock up the hill and the rock rolls down the hill. You push the rock up the hill and the rock rolls down the hill and you push the rock up the hill and the rock rolls down the hill and so on. You are pushing the rock up the hill that is rolling down the hill. I have a list of 30 things to fix at the cottage next year. Next year I'm going to stay up there from the day after the July long weekend to the day before the August long weekend. Please remind me.
In the last seven days, the Blue Jays have scored eight runs in an inning three times. They haven't scored eight runs in any other game over that period. They hadn't scored eight runs in a game for the week before that, either. Today in major league baseball, two hitters were hit in the head with the bases loaded. One of them--with the head belonging to Micah Owings, the pitcher who makes you wonder how much better a hitter than a pitcher you need to be before they quit sending you out to pitch--drove in the winning run in the twelfth inning. The other was a Blue Jay, Randy Ruiz, a 31-year-old getting his shot not to be a career minor-leaguer, during today's eight-run inning, during which there were also three bases-loaded walks. I was thinking, on my way to the train station, slightly delayed to see if Ruiz was going to leave on his own steam, how it's funny that I felt like he was OK when I saw that he'd been hit in the mouth, might have spat out a tooth with a stream of blood, and then an ambulance careened down the street and as I was watching it wobble away I heard desperate tires screech and pulled my focus back just in time to see a car slide hard into the side of a van that was turning left. Second time in the last two weeks that I've looked between the screech and the crash. Cell phones, I suppose. I'd only ever seen one crash before in my life. That was at a crosswalk. Gotta watch those crosswalks, I've always thought; they're death traps. The catcher on one of my baseball teams had his legs broken at a crosswalk.
