I am dumb and she is smart. We were like Gracie Allen and George Burns when we knew each other. Burns and Allen.
We were captured together 30 years ago. We hadn’t seen each other since we were released.  I told her who I was in an email. She believed it.  Nothing quite like trust.
“Look,” I said in my email, “I’m writing a blog about violence and destruction and corruption. I’d like some help in remembering from you .Can I come up to you and we could remember together?”
“No. Read Yeats.”
“I think the climax of my blog will be the Colorado killings.
“Um,” she said.
“The Batman movie,” I said. “The Dark Knight Rises. Don’t you think that’s really where the climax should come?”
“Of what?”
“Of destruction, violence and corruption?”
“I don’t know. That’s your racket, not mine.”
“I think people’s memories are very short.”
“You remember too much.”
I asked her how a person can remember too much.
She said happy people don’t remember.
I said that I couldn’t believe that.
She said the less you remember the greater your chance to lead a happy life. “When a horrible thing happens,” she said, “the media is obsessed with it at first. But after a very little while, it avoids mentioning it. You can’t keep looking at destruction violence and corruption without losing your sanity. I just told you. Read Yeats.”
“You heard me.”
“I didn’t know you liked poetry.”
“Read Yeats. Destruction and violence.”
“What about corruption?”
“Corruption is the result of destruction and violence.”
“I think destruction and violence are the result of corruption.”
She sniffed. “Read Yeats.”

 The bees build in the crevices
Of loosening masonry, and there
The mother birds bring grubs and flies.
My wall is loosening; honey-bees,
Come build in the empty house of the starling.

We are closed in, and the key is turned
On our uncertainty; somewhere
A man is killed, or a house burned.
Yet no clear fact to be discerned:
Come build in the empty house of the starling.

A barricade of stone or of wood;
Some fourteen days of civil war:
Last night they trundled down the road
That dead young soldier in his blood:
Come build in the empty house of the starling.

We had fed the heart on fantasies,
The heart’s grown brutal from the fare,
More substance in our enmities
Than in our love; O honey-bees,
Come build in the empty house of the starling.


About judyjablow123

In my youth I was a world class tournament golfer. I earned an MA in history at NYU, after which I knew I had had enough of academia. I have remained a student of history. I have a strongly personal - almost entirely negative- take on the contemporary pharmaceutical and mental health industries. That was the impetus for my Bluepolar blog, which will also include stuff on sports, history and anything else that strikes my interest.
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