And the beginning began with an end.  The beginning of Bethany and Denny’s love affair—short-lived in the spring of 1942.  The end usually where something else starts.  The differentiation of this depending on your point of view.  Your relation to the event in question.  A judgment—a measure—is made.  And the outcome depends on if you’re making the judgment or the subject being judged.  The possibilities of any determination on this indecipherable—infinite.  There are infinite measures and in infinite number of measurers.  It’s someone looking at you and someone looking at them looking at you, and on and on like this.  The fallacy of all subjective judgments.  Unless you get to some sort of objective, an objective viewpoint—a being all-knowing, a being by which all other things are measured—a mirror without a mirror, outside of time, in a time before time, and after it.  And maybe, just maybe—this memory is in all of us.  We are all in part not set apart.  The mitotic myopia we see as a reality our miserable illusion, dispersing shattered illusions within illusions, and all our epistemologies without purpose, making us seem all alone, sometimes a comfort when we don’t want to be like someone else, sometimes the cause of our despair when we do.  And we build walls not knowing we are all walls, bricks when we could be cornerstones misquoting good fences make good neighbors.  Our boundaries on what’s important to us drawn, torn down, and drawn again as we play the rock of Sisyphus in time eternal.  Who we invite into our lives merely defining all we have un-invited.  Smug in how we think this gives us our safety, our identity, until we too must stand outside imagined pearly gates.  Hell is only our boundaries.  Heaven our need for no defense.  All of us together when we sleep, and we only think we are apart when we think we wake up.  When we think we are something by our negations of the nothing that makes us everything—the curse of our Cartesian schemes.

When Bethany woke up one April morning in 1942 she didn’t have a lover, but when she went to bed that night she did by denying another.  And this is the strange story of life.  The paradox of love in our attempts to define it—our definitions of it the very thing that makes us know it only in part.  And that’s what happened in Sissy Walker’s garden on a fine day in April, its beginning when she met Denny for the first time and finally got the closure she needed on her first love with Jeremy Bloodwood.  For they all came together that day only to be torn apart.  And this is how I’d tell it, Bethany’s poem on Denny’s smile for the next day already happened, and the ideal end of one love in every beginning of another…

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