Wednesday, May 16, 2012


Reading this good book by Julie Cross called "Tempest" - this 19-year-old is ordinary except for two facts - he's extremely rich and he can travel through time and space. He's not sure why - typically only about 30 minutes or so, only into the past, and nothing he does there has any impact on the future. He and his friend are doing experiments to test it and he's been able to make some "longer jumps" buy still with limited value. Until he witnesses his girlfriend getting shot. His flight instinct kicks in and he accidentally sends himself back two years and can't seem to return to the present time. So now he's struggling with the idea that he may be marching towards her inevitable death, or is it different this time? And if so, why? So begins the task of convincing his friend - a new acquaintance he didn't know two years ago - to try to help him. It's quite engaging and I had to force myself not to take it to work becaus I knew I would read it at lunch when it would actually be smarter for me to work through lunch so I could leave early and get a run it - which I did.

Other engagements tonight mean that it's almost 11 and I'm just now getting my evening freestep in. No other reading done today, and nothing that qualifies as simplifying my life.

Lori's upstairs reading and getting ready for bed. She's not feeling well.

A neighbor's car caught fire tonight. The fire engines came, everyone watched, they doused it with lots of water, they left, the people dispersed. Show's over, back to your normal lives. Except for them. They've now got a driveway full of burnt car and chemicals and insurance to deal with and all that. It's at these moments when you realize how insignificant one's trauma is to the world, even as it's all-consuming for everyone else. You want people to understand your pain but they've moved on. I hate that. I know people who've gone through stuff that changed them forever. Their reality is permanently altered. We join them temporarily for the journey (or in some cases, we simply observe it as we drive by) but all too often people live through their traumas mostly alone. (Conversely, how much joy and success isn't adequately celebrated?)

Anyhow, if I stop babbling, I can get back to my book.
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