DOVE
[the dove on the fence]
[peering one eye to each side]
[is cooing softly]
Our ancestors made offerings to water gods, to gods of weather and war, the kitchen, dead relatives. So inefficient, and so costly. Inventiveness can be too much of a good thing.
An inspired individual thus proclaimed one God, who inherited a rather extensive fief. People were fruitful and civilization multiplied. Delegation of authority became a necessity. So the Delegate naturally claimed affiliation with the God. An executive link, it was claimed, obviously had to be exclusive. And the Real One, said the Delegate, will punish all false proclaimers.
It's another beautiful day, here in the back yard. Now claiming title to The Biggest Hurricane in History, Patricia hit Mexico yesterday. But not a cloud to be seen in San Jose. Just a slight breeze here, 70 degrees. Heavy rain in Texas with flash flooding, says the National Weather Service. “Remember do not attempt to drive into flooded roadways. Turn Around Don't Drown!”.
These reports and estimates are approximately useful. There are costs, chief of which is the illusion: Facts! Events and experience get rolled into little balls, packaged by a dung beetle and offered on my Kindle for free. Well, not entirely. There are ads.
Today's breeze comes with a hint of Winter under its breath. None of it meant for entertainment, though danger conceals opportunity. This might be a good time to pitch “The Galoshes of Fortune,” a fairy tale by Hans Christian Anderson. Even better
would be his “Only a Fiddler,” in which Christian meets an unprofitable end.
It's all an opportunity, including the CNN reports of Patricia, to see how the little balls get rolled.
*** *** ***
Syntax is a stretcher. Did the universe mean to make me? I, you? Ignore the ghost.
Within the interstices of the grid, I acknowledge a blue sky overhead. In a poetic way perhaps it yawns, but the metaphor stumbles over laughter.
OK, it is simply blue. Well, not all that simply because, looking around, I see a few wisps of spindly clouds. A man in a red shirt, a short pony tail wrapped in a rubber band, reminding me of a horse on parade, is walking over his roof, notices I am watching and waves stubbily, in keeping with his Fu Man Chu beard. There is a story there.
Where the veranda abuts the main house, and where the drain doesn't work right. The end faces towards our fence, and as the sun sinks low light skims across the irregularities. They might disappear into dark brown paint. Perhaps a white venetian blind hanging further down will be forgiven.
Far from being forgiven, the whole composition is a celebration of light, trickling down to a nail head popped out slightly. My camera, like Tabitha, accepts things at face value, on down to the last pin hole.
And that's the story. It has told itself.
Front yard birds have come to play on the fence. One of them chooses to sit right in my line of sight, with the story just beyond. Which is where it breaks down.
It disappears, leaving a celebration.
*** *** ***
One can hardly escape the implications of a cup of green tea. Or a dream that is credible. Everyone, even the least imaginative of us, has them. Some of us will admit wasting time at work this way. So it is fundamental and imperative that a solid structure such as this fence does not disobey the rules of work versus play, waking and sanity.
Never fear, for as much as I stare, no section of it will inexplicably grow hinges. That was an event reserved for the ritual of slumber, with covers pulled over. A perfectly sane ritual that happens to coincide with physiological needs, and the respectability of “logical.”
My companion has returned to sit on the edge of reality, and resumes her gaze. As the magic gate swings open, yet another yard appears, quite unlike the one usually there. It is a mutual fascination, and I wonder if the gate belied by hum drum eyes might be a shared vision. Or maybe she is simply keeping a watchful eye on the seed feeder. Any interpretation that suits will do.
The other yard has no trace of the roses usually tended there. Instead there is a tall forest, with green leaves fluttering down that have made a spongy brown floor. Comfortable underfoot. A middle aged woman with fair skin and auburn hair welcomes me. Without introductions we begin a discussion of matters such as the reach of a comet now approaching, the relative importance of such things. For once here is someone living on the same planet. I assume she must be very attractive, but upon closer acquaintance her features appear to be rather pudgy.
With her smooth plump breast, our dove watching from the fence might be pudgy. So I retroactively revise my opinion, and file it with a note under “space-time.”
Tutored by a bird!
Incredulous?
The front yard bird now joins our fence sitter. Within a few inches of each other, they sit peaceably..
*** *** ***
All biological compounds are subject to microbial digestion. And rebirth. Cheerios become comic books.
On Facebook all of us are alive, biologically. Very few are acquitted of the twitteristic verdict, or want to be. Quite a few find the unexamined life worth living until perhaps a tornado, a pogrom, a hydrogen bomb, shopping for groceries.
Looking straight into the face of it all is not heroic – the age of heroes meeting autonomous machine guns. Switching channels is twittery. Smoking dope might ease the pain for survivors.
Our much vaunted bout of rain (Paul Deanno -- “We'll take whatever we can get.”) arrived a day ahead of the forecast, passed with a splash, leaving a dry and sunny afternoon.
How cruel to enjoy this, though it's not a matter of my choice. Any more than the forecast, or temperament, which is only biological. It may all disappear into an El Nino storm, which is not an uninstall program.
Our solid fence gives no indication of the Magic Gate. But so? The dream that made it was just as real. And this fence, equally vivid now, loses none of its luster. Who is anyone to dictate their preference over what is not my choice, or theirs either. Or a scrap of crumpled paper? Enjoyment dictates itself. The emergence from twitterdom meets no schedule, is not earned, is not some sort of gold in a safe deposit box.
This afternoon's air is moist and pleasant. No one can say it is seasonal, but it is pleasant, even if, at least, the forecast might have met its schedule and this were written indoors. The vividness perceptible with “real” eyes, or through the Gate, is not a fact. Beyond visions and magic is just This.
Late afternoon shadows flutter on the fence.
*** *** ***
A climate change anomaly is probably the right stuff for This. A reluctant awakening is generally underfoot, people having to admit that it's NOT the best of all possible worlds. The profit wars (as I write, sporadic pops a block or two away are Halloween firecrackers [?], or gunshots [?], or best of all jokes, beer can tabs [?]) melting down to flash mobs guided by iPhone radar. The Evening News is Masterpiece Theater. Not only is it that something has to give, it HAS.
Isn't Halloween on the cusp of rainy season? Yes -- here in California as the wild fires rage and floods in the southerly parts choke highways with mud solidifying twelve feet thick. Yes indeed, this beautiful afternoon, sunny and 80 degrees, will soon give way to Sunday and an 80% chance of rain. How long has it been?
We all know this. To ignore the malaise is insanity. Some of us can't help taking the first steps towards sanity. Suddenly I recall, reading in The Three Pillars of Zen, where Yasutani Roshi relates the story of a man who on his death bed has his kensho just before dying. “Isn't that wonderful?” Yasutani asks.
There is a gentle breeze. Tabitha has come to enjoy the sun with me. The early celebration of Hell Night now simmers down to squeals and shouts emanating from the Cabana Club on the corner.
Our dove sits on the fence. It's not about the best of all possible seeds.
This tranquility might be a dream, as measured by El Nino standards, as undertaken by minds in no way measurable. An entertainment of paradoxes leaping over self-created labyrinth walls.
