There is a quiet beauty.

Like opening a can of dreams, only to find they have gone to sleep. One cannot wake out of deep slumber without experiencing some doubt. Can the table that recently held dinner remember what was eaten there?

No matter what is said by anyone, including myself, there is quiet beauty. The lotus blossom is a distraction. A recording of robin's song is plagiarism. Yet all these are it. Replacing a broken toilet is it.

The difficulty of a good description is cause for laughter, or winning an agate at the game of marbles. A small square pond of water might well replace the reflecting mirror of tradition. When the water moves, so does the reflection. But why bother? Why pull another rabbit out of the hat.

These writing fingers do not know what comes next, which will take care of itself when it gets here. It is like a ceremony in which nothing happens. What is being said has a mind of its own, beyond efforts to reach it. Aimless words, are they not? Yet the meander is not random. I would say they resemble fog in the evening, hunkering down well established features of the earth, following the way of least resistance.

So the choice, now, is between the whine and patter, the whoosh of city streets – or mountain dew. Advocates have gathered on opposite sides. When considered from a distance, the great chasm in civilized life is inherent. Involved in life itself, however, is the page. Using concrete examples, I think about half of possible readers will revert to metaphysics or philosophy. Most of the rest will be busy eating lunch during an exploration of the chasm.

Firing up a fusion reactor, I will drive a stake into the heart of a fly. The deuterium, after ignition, must be contained. The stake is wood. Only on the page can these elements be combined to good effect. What is possible yields an insight that has nothing to do with the sphere on which the fly happens to land. It rubs its hind legs together. Rubbing fast, two sticks together . . . noumena, eventually, of light.

Not qualifying for serious attention is the impossible burger. Impossible things are happening. Just that, since they are, they aren't because they can't be, or so it is thought. Seems like double-talk. Which it is because what's impossible can't happen. Can it? It's been decided.

Put-put. Drip-drip. Modern madness. Never the twain . . . you can have one. Or the other.

Contemplate a steam engine. A wood burner. Take it back a few pages, and read – the iron horse is impossible. Moving on come small transitions, almost unnoticed, until what was formerly impossible becomes reality. Explanations are embarrassing.

Mountain dew is soothing. Primitive machines are cacophony on wheels. The moral, it would seem, is take off the wheels.

Here we have a page for that. But maybe show a little restraint. Perhaps a little side show – stacking rocks by the freeway, in competition with bill boards, to demonstrate a balanced finesse. The chasm bridged will be between viewing life from a car door side window, and boots on the ground. Walk a few steps in empathy. Hear and whine and whoosh.

Can everyone be on the same page? Is it possible to be everywhere at once?

For the moment, this is that page.