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2006-01-23

Freddie Mercury (b. Farrokh Bulsara)
B. 9.5.1946 Stone Town, Zanzibar / D. 11.24.1991 London
AIDS

Yet another reason why I donít mind that the company folded and I lost my job on Friday is that I can be awake at 3:30 am to watch my beloved Hingis play live womenís tennis in the Australian Open round of 16.
Freedomís way of promising precise joys is so sweet.
I love watching Martina Hingis play tennis as much as I love any other pleasure in life.
For me it is quite as good as kissing.
Although I canít pretend to great breadth of experience among the many other life-pleasures that I suppose to exist, having read about them in magazines, neither can I believe that Mister Brad Pitt is getting to look at anything more beautiful than the Hingis backhand.
It pierces like Mozart.
My beloved Hingis, with her power to transfix and transform me: today I felt lighter, surer of foot than I had in agesótoday, after watching what she did to Benesova in the third round not once but twice.
Repetition adds twofold to its charms.
The first time, late on Friday, the day my company and job with it were devoured by our parent company, I opted out of the additional aggravation and peeked at the score on-line well before the taped broadcast:
Freedom heaped upon freedom: wide open the vistas of joys singular, new and precise. Like rows in an orchard, like hill ranges paling to distant snowcaps, like ranks of cloud in a mackerel sky gilded by sunset or dawn;
Hingis in two. I was in heaven.
like a sold-out arena, tier upon tier of ovation, ecstasy, synchronized heartbeats and namelessness;
The replay aired during the Metropolitan Operaís live Saturday matinee broadcast of The Magic Flute so I watched with the sound off: my beloved Hingis went up a break in time to the Queen of the Nightís second aria.
like a peacockís tail, promise flows upward and outward.
Heard just tonight another case of a lost sheep, seemingly blinded, who wandered for years in a gruesome wilderness where the healing love of Hingis never fellónow miraculously newly blessed. Love droplets prism in awakened eyes at her return.
Iíve seen it happen.
I myself have missed Martina Hingis more than I will ever miss the job I lost on Friday, whose restoration I would be inclined to run from: I saw my last 3:30 am for that job over a year ago now.
The wished for will arrive; whatís lost will be restored; missing people will reappear.
With her return my love of watching Martina Hingis hit a tennis ball reveals itself a little wiser for the wear of missing her. I can see quite clearly that I love myself in my beloved. I was so exceptionally brilliant and fine as a near-sighted child that I, too, worry sometimes: Can I still fulfill my potential?
Obstacles will be transformed into tulle.

Consolation Site: Queenzone

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