"where half dreams may dream without end ..."

Resolutions are comforting things, like a gentle hand smoothing the wrinkles from a tablecloth. The past couple of days have showed me some things about my self that need some sanding, and a fesh coat of paint, and while adding that to my psychospiritual to-do list is always annoying, it's certainly better than the alternative, where I crash about like a large, easily startled dog, who's just fine to have around till a door slams, and he clears the coffee table. Thankfully, the maturity of both myself (patting myself on the back here, but I think I might just deserve it) and the other party involved (thank you) have allowed me to move on to this work with a clear mind. I *do* like resolutions.

I only wish it was always that easy. Thinking about Ecobar, I so dearly want a resolution, but I don't even know what it would look like, and truly doubt if it's even possible. I think on it, over and over again, write about it seemingly endlessly, till the words have run out of me like a cracked pitcher. I come to terms with it recursively, examining and reexamining, wringing it dry of everything it can possibly teach me, until it feels like wasted time, but wasted time with something missing, something just out of reach that I can fit into the picture, and it will all make sense in some glorious shower of trumpets.

I think it's ego. Well, I think it's both ego and the general recursiveness of it. That's the part that gnaws at me, knowing that it may well never be 'finished' whatever that may look like. I long for a resolution I can't even describe.

Hopefully, time will be the gentle hand that smooths the cloth, and the loop will twist, leading away, somewhere entirely new.

Jade

"You ask how god can curse you thus..."

"That's not a question asked by us..."

Recent conversation in the comments to a previous entry have taught me something about myself. For all of my fondness for academic rigor and nuance, I can be a terribly black and white person. My intellectual explorations are often motivated by a desire to break things down into small enough pieces that I can slap labels on them, file them appropriately, and shut the drawers.

Oh, dear. I had thought I was more grown up than that. (You know, sometimes I hate being so damned honest here.)

Escobar is not the type pf thing that can be broken into easily digestable pieces. It can't be stamped with labels that say 'over' and 'not over'. It's too multi-layered, too subtle in its repercussions, in what went into in the first place. It's too oddly shaped to fit into the neat drawers I had prepared for it.

However, looking over what I've written about it of late, that's just fine. I have learned a great deal from it, and honestly think I'm quite improved for having done so. If it is onionlike, that just means I will go through another process like this one, learning the next set of lessons.

That doesn't diminish the pain it caused, nor the continued troubles I have with understanding motives, and how that trouble makes my feeling shaky. Honestly, I don't rightly think those things *should* be diminished, because there is a great deal of honor in it, and in how I handled it. That, however, is another entry.

Jade