Desire and decay...

I read the other day somewhere that "love is a brittle teacher." I think that I agree. It's not negative; just honest in a refreshing way.
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brit⋅tle   [brit-l]
adjective, -tler, -tlest, noun, verb, -tled, -tling.
–adjective
1. having hardness and rigidity but little tensile strength; breaking readily with a comparatively smooth fracture, as glass.
2. easily damaged or destroyed; fragile; frail: a brittle marriage.
3. lacking warmth, sensitivity, or compassion; aloof; self-centered: a self-possessed, cool, and rather brittle person.
4. having a sharp, tense quality: a brittle tone of voice.
5. unstable or impermanent; evanescent
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Yesterday evening found me curled, chin on knees, at Meg's kitchen table. We made dinner; translation: I listened to her banter (always intriguing) and watched her cook. This is the usual scenario when the two of us peel ourselves away from our beds/bars/studios/etc. and break bread together. I sip at my glass of wine and hunker down in perching mode, and Madge whips magic together over a stovetop. Bless her. I think that if I am ever a mother, I will force her to teach me her ways. I know that she will be more than game; gleeful even. Bitch. I'll read aloud to you, poetry and fashion literature, while you coo my babies to sleep and sling cakes and casseroles in and out of my oven, okay lover?

The night was eventless and effortless; it was exactly what I wanted. Exactly what I needed and she knew it; I knew it. One of my most cherished things about this lady (and there are many) is that I don't have to pretend around her; ever. I can cry or rant or make slim to no sense or say absolutely nothing at all, and it is always okay. She is a tirelessly graceful audience for all of the glaring highs and lows I have pulled, and everything in between. We just mesh in a way that I cannot explain and I carry the mystery of that around like something very dear and rare. Je t'aime, Francie. You are one in a trill.

On a complete subject skip--Argentina count: one month, less three days. I feel so so ready for heat-streaked mornings, and fresh cool nights. Drapey dresses and damp hair and sand against skin and Spanish lilting through the air and water. Water, water, water. I want to walk and write and lay and listen and feel and observe and learn and reflect and be.
I am chasing it and it is near, nearer than I think. Somehow our take-wing date seems a lofty distance away still, but it is creeping like an insect and it is moving with haste.
Going going going gone.
Rab Louise.

PS. Apologies, Demetra, if this wasn't the profound collection of words you were hoping for. I owe you one.