Morning Saturday

Ten thirty. Went to the store in a light shower, no umbrella, just a hooded rain jacket. Nice to get out for a few minutes and see some faces. Funny how a cloudy day casts everything sort of blue, like a filter lens. I liked the way Hugo contrasts Napoleon and the Duke of Wellington. One is guided by inspiration and genius, the other, ordinary common sense, and God saw fit to end the outrage of the first. This description is similar to a lot of Emerson essays, that is, the way nature inspires people of genius and makes them heroic, but only for a limited time. Evidently Napoleon’s time was up at the Battle of Waterloo… Aesop is stretched out at my feet and it’s a quiet Saturday morning. Nothing heroic about it, merely natural and realistic. I can remember times when I felt heroic, back when I played in rock bands and read American Romanticism for support. I gave a volume of Hawthorne to a guitarist friend once in 2003. He was a fan of Washington Irving and Poe. I haven’t heard from Marc in a couple of years. Interesting guy. When he knew I had joined a church he stopped calling me. I suppose I could call the barbecue joint where he works as chef and leave him a message. But it would open an old can of worms, and I don’t want to lose this recovery. An aura of darkness hovered over Marc and the work we did together. He belonged to the counterculture, the antithesis of Christianity. I was quite uncomfortable with that. Better to let the darkness dissipate and never go back.

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