An itinerant judge, having already formed an opinion, was en route to a tournament of sand castle Kings. Words roll off the tongue, sounding like the surf, echoing an origin. A grain of sand is a galaxy. A swallow perched while the sand was dry, wings fluttering, ready to carry the news.
To decide for a castle not yet built might account for the anonymous pose of the judge. Since not one bit of any castle had yet been raised, it would be a matter of faith. Returning to Capistrano with real mud, always there had never been worries about political repercussions.
There was an origin?
Observing birth and death, a mind speaks its piece. Yes, we would have it so. Mothers and fathers participate, and giving a boost to the cycle, memory honors them.
In the name of fair reporting, a journalist suggested a shift in focus. The story ought to emphasize sand. How about a sandwich competition? Who would object? Consider the Capistrano nestlings. Would they not enjoy the best of both worlds? Real mud, rested wings, vagaries of an itinerant judge consumed right there on the beach. With sand castles forgotten, the faith of innocent birds would be rewarded.
It will be objected, perhaps, that the judge gets off scot-free. The other side of the story, however, is that of living with an unjustified opinion, though the King's castle had been doomed from the beginning.
And also . . .
Consider that for a long time this earth wasn't alive. It was more the way we find Venus now. But eventually conditions changed. Organisms grew that learned to metabolize carbon dioxide, thus excreting oxygen, originating life as we know it. If one origin derives from another, it becomes part of a cycle. The mind struggles with what it cannot record or directly recall, supplanting gaps with interpolations. Origins are a tempting theme. The mind speaks its peace, remembering the galaxy in a grain of sand.
Until one day it suddenly forgets, getting out of the story. In that moment, out of a grain of sand, the song of a bird is born.
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The oil years are winding down, leaving the planet reeling. Overpopulation, flooded valleys, a virus riding school buses, planes, trains, millions of tailpipes belching toxic fumes. Countless animals bred for meat, farting methane. Plains once verdant are reduced to dust. Ecosystems are in collapse. Is this overstated?
Reeling? What impels the use of this word? Here are several meanings, loosely related:
Reel off, to say or recite rapidly without apparent effort.
To stand, walk, or run unsteadily.
A cylindrical device on which thread, silk, yarn, paper, film, wire, etc., are wound.
A lively folk or Scottish dance, of two or more couples facing each other.
A device for winding and unwinding a line as required, especially in fishing.
The etymology in my dictionary is given:
[OE hreol, of unknown origin.]
It's origin is as mysterious as my choice. I have never been fishing, never done a Scottish dance.
Muse rules, however, entailing acceptance of what's given, even though it makes little sense. Sometimes it comes at dreamtime, to be deciphered upon awakening, and sometimes the other way round. Sometimes I pose my questions and go to sleep.
Next morning I am greeted with “Reed.” Oh, such a help! A sound-alike.
But looking further online, in Webster's I find:
“akin to Old Norse hroell weaver's reed, Greek krekein to weave”
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“Re-deep” No use tutoring a frog in French. Installing a lightning rod will not attract enlightenment. An apple a day is the delicious way. Stirring the pot might polish the spoon. Twinkie comes in to sit on my shoulder. She rustles a flea. To watch the pen move is great entertainment.
It's all on a par with climate disaster, focusing on nothing in the third chakra. We learn the madman might have triggered the nuclear promise, MAD. Fulminations slip through into the black hole of meditation.
Well, for once the range of it has chanced into words. There is a sigh out of dreams past, and it makes little difference whether Twinkie wins her flea. She moves to the nightstand, licks her foreleg, washes her ear. The gist of it is enough.
There is some melding of Delphic reality and a game of marbles, dice, or when the phone rings and it's a miscall. Dreams are disturbingly truthful, sometimes skipping generations, landing in what's to be, like a daisy blooming on a power pole. She doesn't care. I get up to go pee and when I'm back she's sitting in my place. We argue. On the other hand, she also appears at the back door when I'm thinking of letting her in.
There was more to Franklin's key on a kite string than we hear about. Out in that field was adventure. Lightning strikes where it wants, not because of a wet string.
Beads on a string are pearls that have taken on new meanings. One by one they seem lonely, yet together they hum. Listen closely to hear the purring that trundles on with softened edges . . . MADmen come and go, the world never without them, on a Ferris wheel with a chain saw sputtering, fireballs for doomsday. A lizard in the sun. . . The morning will come, comes every day, when on an apple a day the universe has its way.
Twinkie is asleep on my lap.
