I'll tell you about the bees another night

This has been a drama in itself over the last few weeks, but I'll write about it later. There is a little phrase from Swan's Way (Proust) that says that when he dies, he will wrap himself up in his dreams and carry those dreams into oblivion with him (to keep him warm on oblivion's cold nights) That made Swan's Way worthwhile. I've still not read the other four. There is a song I've discovered- I've discovered a whole live of music and songs in the last four years that I missed. I've posted it here before and will probably post it again at the end of this. The phase "and I will sing a song of my own" makes it the same touchstone for me and brings the same meaning to the confrontation of death. (Which everyone agrees that I've been creating against since day one.) There are secrets that one can never tell, out of love, out of respect, out of realization that the moment the secret was created it was yours, it was the other person's and it belongs there forever in the emotional fiber of one's existence. What was said when my children were conceived. What was said in a moment of confession to my children. What was said in the destruction of marriage. Or on a deathbed watch. Or on a walk on the beach with a friend. There is a urge to find the secrets, to expose them, to tell the world what the real truth is. But it is what fiction was designed for: to expose them in the settings of their creation. The nuance of words spoken between two people that have a connection can only be expressed in a setting of emotional history and physical textual settings that conveys what it meant at the time. So to blurt them out does them no justice at all. Remembering words can invoke a devotion that can last a thousand years. So we create the lie of fiction to make those confessions we can make no other way. And I will wrap myself in them when the last "ding dong" of history takes me home. (Ding dong was in Faulkner's Nobel Prize acception speech)