Friday is gray overcast, the temperature mild, and the day is windy.  Change is always on the playbill.  Why not welcome another harbinger of winter?

Reading On Nietzsche by Georges Bataille, I am captivated by the author’s analysis of the trajectory of a life, in the light of a relationship, or relationships of maximum of devotion.  What is/was it like to love, to be loved?  After all is said and done in the poetic foolishness of vapid pop songs, there is undeniable reality in that crucible of desire.  By what serendipity am I “in love” with him or her?  Was it fate, or was it choice?  Could circumstances, too many to conceive, been any other than the crossing of our paths?  That any love endures is an enigma.  In the course of time, I have discovered she is different, abysmally different than the person-of-my-dreams.  And yet, and yet was it worth it?  Absolutely.  Amazing luck!

Love is so exorbitant a feeling
that I take my head in my hands:
Isn’t this dream kingdom, born of passion, fundamentally a lie.
in the end,
the “features” dissipate.

Layers of dead leaves are not steps to a throne,
and tugboats horns disperse illusions of enchantment.

However,
what answer would the magnificence of the world give
if no one could speak to us,
communicating an undoubtedly indecipherable message:
“This fate that befalls you, which you regard as your own
(that of this man, who you are)
or of being in general (of the immensity of which you are a part),
you see it now,
Nothing will permit it to be reduced to the poverty of things
– which are only what they are.
…You cannot say that you wanted this odyssey, only that you are it.

Who would challenge its distance, extremity, and desirability? Desirable?
Am I equal to the enigma?
If, seeing me you hadn’t chosen this inaccessible goal,
you would never have approached the enigma!”

Night undoubtedly falls, but in the aggravation of desire.

-excerpt On Nietzsche, by Georges Bataille, trans. by Stuart Kendall p. 76

More-

I hate lies (poetic foolishness)
but the desire within us has never lied.
There is a sickness in desire that often makes us seem an abyss
between the imagined object and the real object.
Its true, the beloved differs from my conception of the lover.
What’s worse is that the identity of the real with the object of desire assumes,
or so it seems, amazing luck.

… If nothing in us veils the splendor of the skies,
we are worthy of infinite love.

Enough.  My hair is on fire.