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Waters of March

January 1, 2012

Do you know the song? It is magnificent. I could listen to it all day long.

It makes me want to saunter down the road wearing red lipstick. And I live in the country where lipstick is against the law. But I still have parties. I do my part to keep play alive. And my work fraught is with danger.

Last night I broke a glass. Or you might say the glass broke itself; I was only standing there watching. I did not even wonder if I could catch it. I leaned back. As my brother likes to say, it was bigger than me. The glass lifted itself up from the counter like a kite, twirled around, spun towards the floor and hit, shattering into bits. The stem was left. Oh I know, I could have reached out and tried to save it, but I was tired. The chances of catching it were slim. The odds of self-recrimination if I tried and failed were high. With an expert eye I surveyed the field of dishes and let go. We’d had a lovely evening. I knew I could get another one. I knew exactly where. I knew that part of the price of having parties is that there are sometimes casualties. It was better than a twisted ankle. It was better than hurt feelings. It was better than a piece of glass in my foot or yours. And being the rationalizing creature that I am, as I’m sweeping up I wonder — beyond the systematic or accidental acquisition of wisdom and the habits of precaution — can anything about to happen really be averted? If I could I would watch my life like a movie, wondering what will be next, sparing myself the thought it could have been different.

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