A slow, strange, slightly sad weekend. Spent in an isolation that was sometimes shared. I don't think its just me, but there seems to be an undercurrent of loneliness in everything and everyone i pass through, even, especially, in the frenzied, desperate jubilance on whyte ave. So many people, living in such close proximity...actual, meaningful connections betweeen them so rare and fleeting. Loneliness amplified the closer we get to another person, purified and distilled to its essence., this ache being the most powerful thing we share, and the one that most eludes communication, something...deep, that never translates into words. I want to say i understand, that i know, that the place i sense they are is a place i've been, and, in truth, am never far from, a home devoid of comfort exept in familiarity. You fill with a compassion, natural and unbidden, springing from recognition of something you know too well. Attempts to speak falter, trail off into the blandly trite and inadequate. Sometimes there are gestures that fare slightly better. Sometimes, all you can give is silence. I get angry at the impotence of my words, but i somehow can't stop them from pouring out , as if volume will fill the hole, as if i can patch an ancient wound with a frail fabric of nice phrases. I hear myself say things that have been said to me, at other times, and didn't offer a speck of comfort then either.

Amongst those i can't help caring about i am aware of significant pain - in some cases faintly sensed, slight, nagging- in others...bald and unmitigated. I am as helpless against it in them as i am in myself. If i could...