Just passing through on my way to April
I am not back.
I simply did not want to allow the
month of March to escape unscathed. I needed to brand it with a few words in a
post.
March is a month of eleven birthdays I
observe to one degree or another, including my own. This year, it also was marked by two funerals of
people who were sort of distant relatives -- distant, at least, in time. This March
has been a month of much snow and frigid temperatures -- and, seemingly,
unending-cloud-covered skies.
I bought another pistol during March. It is the
larger of the two in the photograph. It is a Colt 1911 Officers Model. It is in .45
caliber. I am not sure why I bought it. I certainly do not need another.
I do know why, actually. I always am searching
for perfection in one form or another. I have long tried to find a pistol that
is perfect for me. By perfect in the case of a handgun, I mean one which
becomes an extension of my arm and my hand, one which becomes part of me in
mind and body. A few have been close, but always something is lacking. It is too soon to know if this Colt will be "the one."
I probably never will find a pistol or anything that truly is perfect for me: No perfect handgun, no perfect car or truck, no perfect house on a hilltop, no perfect woman to live in the perfect house with me. Never-the-less, I continue to look, to search, to seek ....
I probably never will find a pistol or anything that truly is perfect for me: No perfect handgun, no perfect car or truck, no perfect house on a hilltop, no perfect woman to live in the perfect house with me. Never-the-less, I continue to look, to search, to seek ....
Of course, I always have been among the first
to say one person's concept/vision of perfection is another person's concept/vision
of the ordinary. But, I am sure you know what I mean. A particular shirt, for instance, feels
like "it is you," while another shirt hangs in a closet never to be worn because you do not "feel right" when wearing it. It is a sense -- an intuition -- more than it is a reality. That is what I mean when I say "perfection."
So, March 2014 passes into oblivion
and the history books. Time only matters to a person as it applies to himself
or herself, and when it is not important to the individual, it ceases to exist
as an actuality no matter if it is past, present or future. In most respects,
March ceased to exist before it even arrived for me. Now, we shall see what
April has to say for itself:
Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote
The droghte of Marche hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour ....
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,
And palmeres for to
seken straunge strondes, The droghte of Marche hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour ....
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,
To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes ....
