STIRRING COFFEE
Here in drought land climate change California, big bee gathers nectar from purple flowers. Sugar feeds the mind. Around the coffee stirring spoon, just looking down, a black hole appears. Like a well digested meal, not even a burp. Events course along with this lawn chair.
Along with the reality of our insult to the planet, to our fellow humans, and to other creatures, comes an inexplicable calm. An insight that, while indescribable, really is ordinary.
Plainly, lots of people feel trapped to some degree. There will be exceptions to this, as to any particular statement, but restraint is necessary for any civilized person. Civilization in general entails an individual search for freedom.
.If you're unemployed, underemployed, imprisoned, have the wrong skin color, live in a penthouse, on an inherited estate, the urge is attenuated. While watching a movie, eating popcorn, likewise. Biker, doper, consuminoid muncher, save the planet with an electric car recycle plastic worrier about asteroids or nuclear winter, lots of people are distracted.
Which still leaves left over plenty who have gotten free enough to seek real freedom. And for these people it must be said you won't find it reading this. Or anything else. No matter how well packaged, venerated and vouched for. And no particular practice will do it, no matter how venerated &C. Maybe the only value in saying this is for steering you clear of further entrapments.
It's a nice day, here in the back yard, in which to enjoy the transitory fine weather. The burden of saving you, myself, civilization, the world, is lifted. Getting free has much to recommend it, is possible, can't be earned, bought or generated. It can be hindered or ignored, so there's a clue.
Grand expressions of art, philosophy and poetry all all sing this simple tune. Here the lackadaisical breeze is language. Mr. Squirrel eating seeds is perched on the edge of the feeder, his tail hanging down in a grateful “S”.
In the kitchen making a peach pie, Susan hears through her earphones -- “Some guy has asked 'From how high do you have to drop a steak so that it lands well done?'” Which she counters with an impatient expression.
A moment later, from out of nowhere, I suddenly recall Whitman, in the midst of his Leaves, saying -- “The other I am.” Which I counter with: There is no other.
There are two kinds of chop sticks – the stable sort with squared off shafts that do not roll off bowls, and the elegant ones that are finely finished, having rounded shafts with pointed ends. The pointy kind are more expensive, useful for prying apart cooked fish. The stubby ones maybe just for noodles.
Earlier this morning I used the vegetable peeler to whittle a pair of stubby ended chopsticks, accumulating a small pile of shavings for the compost.
Front yard birds are scratching seeds. Birds do not burp.
