I haven't written about it here yet because it sort of slipped my mind, but once again the trade winds of good fortune have blown over my fair head and financial matters between friends have been settled, happily, and with no regrets. That is to say, "money lent to a friend must be recovered from an enemy" has not once, not twice, but now thrice proven to be false and clearly a weak assignment when spread thin upon everyone's soul.
I clearly have found at least some friends that I can help out without the need to break kneecaps, and that sort of trust and acceptance, with a willing amount of leeway and an easy mind towards the tardiness of life, has so far treated me well. I am, often, reminded that my acquaintances - for all their riff-raff and rag-tag bedfellows, for each of their life's misdirections - they are sometimes and can often be better men and women then I, Gunga Din.
And so it is with these things, the circle or oval or some sort of inter-connected cycle - perhaps wobbling about an invisible axis - comes back on itself, winding around onto its own, and spinning off towards all destinations at the same time. We but mere children atop this tilt-a-whirl merry-go-round, hanging on for dear life and sometimes, sometimes, hanging on to our money, but sometimes just letting go.
My money wants to go and yet I want to put it to bed, tucking it in like grandchildren, little nuggets of happiness saved up for the future, the bright one, the one that needs shades. It is a struggle, and I internally bleed, in the mind's eye, as if it were a cage match between wit and brawn, brains and bowels. Here, though, as it can be with good friends, the show is productive more than destructive and everybody learns something along the way; something about living and getting on and ignoring those futurologists who sit, wrinkled, in their rockers and wheelchairs, writing their checks out in pennies or pence, positively weak with wealth.