and he would have to wait. Wait until spring. The winds blew heavy on the shoreline, and only a remnant of the water was thawed. Just enough though for his purposes. Across the expanse above the rock formations the naked trees stood, which in a few months would bud and bloom. Right now the land across Devil’s Kitchen looked like a gray wall—colorless, blended with the white-wash of the rock—the only green the rich moss which mottled the stones. It would be May before the flowers.

and all of this all of this water—how does it freeze and thaw and what is lost in the process? I hear the chop the gurgle the faint slap as if where I stand here is the indiscretion. And what’s buried can’t come up. What I see down in can’t look up and out. For what is within can’t be without… love is stupid if it ain’t got that power that says No. No not to I will but to that incipient digression which if you hear it you get annoyed—like hearing an old bitch with a nag—and it all starts the same it all starts with Tell me Tell me you love me. And I can tell you how it ends how it always has to end even after all the reasons why—with the silence of a fool—for no matter how many times you’re told you can’t be told. Love has no tells has no second chances. Only the naïve the idealist thinks that. Nothing changes except you grow older. And the laughter in this is the beauty. Don’t try I says. Don’t try to love because then you’re just trying to be God. And sooner or later that hubris will get to ya. Tryin’ to be love has everything but love in it. And we all know it. We’ve all been stupid before. Confusing love with vulnerability. Giving up an advantage. But that’s mixing love with a bet. A gamble. Often with unexpected outcomes. See your love always has pieces of you in it an I will love in order to be loved. Ain’t no God in love—there’s just Love. That’s why you can’t understand it. You just gotta believe… love made him stupid—that Oliver. What he thought was love was just his shame with another name to it—an appearance. And what goes out like a lamb begins with a Fool. A weak ethic. Peggy didn’t make him do anything he didn’t do to himself. It was like hurting yourself hoping who you let hurt you would heal you. A dependence on some sort of sado-masochistic kindness. But God didn’t die to be mourned. He died to be raised again… Love—it’s a chronic bleed, but there is a fountain. And it never paints itself a pitiable character. It’s never really a sacrifice. That’s its illusion its sleight of hand. That’s Love waiting on you to expose yourself. Trying to take what can only be given. Freely… See that’s what Oliver didn’t get why he pitied himself that I was father to his child why he stood with the photographer and wasn’t even in that picture—Love makes you a free man. You never have to be afraid. Afraid that someone knows what you’re going to do because they know you see no other options but to do it. Anything that don’t make you free ain’t love. Anything that gives you a sickening feeling of powerlessness ain’t a debt you can’t repay it’s a debt you should never have to pay a debt in fact never owed by you. He was like a mouse is to a cat. He thought he was indebted to a woman. But really he just liked being caught in order to be set free. Really he was just the foreplay before a meal…

he left himself enough rope. Even without being weighted down the body would sink. It was wearing clothes in a frozen lake. Like water like anything what’s lost in the process time. But only a fool would want immediate gratification. Only a fool would want the seed he has sown to present its fruit with no time in between. So many subtle pleasures are lost this way…

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