A House of Moments II

Published Saturday, April 29, 2006 by Frank Sauce | E-mail this post

Naomi likes rings. The ring around anyone's belly button; the ring around the sun in fall; she even likes the rings around oil on the road, after the rain when the sun makes the slick shine. He liked Naomi and so did Eric, which made it difficult for them to live together rightly. No, they didn't live together wrongly, either. They lived in the same house, shared the same spoons, plates, pans and toilet, because that's what roommates do. They share things.

Whosoever is the cleverest, not the most clever? -est is the pinnacle, not the penultimate, the top-best-est. She thinks "the most cleverest" is not. Perhaps that is what we should be getting at?

Can we really test logic with logic? As with many things in philosophy, one has to first believe in the precepts of logic and that requires a basis in faith. A logician has to have faith in the logic. Just as one needs to have belief and faith in grammar in order to be a grammarian.

Shouldn't we celebrate the faith it takes for logic and sense to be in order? However, shouldn't we also celebrate the illogic and nonsense outside of order? Of course, to celebrate the absurd, one has to be faithless toward logic, and to celebrate logic, one has to be faithless toward the absurd. However, there must be a moment in transition, when one is simultaneously faithful and faithless to sense and nonsense.

There is where we find Eric and Naomi and he. They live in a house of moments between.

He chooses a spoon from the drawer, smiling at the shadows of the cabinets. Naomi pulls the sheets up from her bed, assuring herself that the bed is still there for her to sleep. Eric walks back and forth from the end of his bed to the door, forgetting each time why Eric needed to leave.

One could say, "The house suits them together in this and other moments."

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Frank Sauce

By Jeffrey Bershaw
from Portland, OR
I'll try to write as little as possible. I'm a little man with high hopes, pipe dreams and little machines inside that keep me writing.
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Painting by Anna Todaro