Thursday, June 2, 2016
Late to Chocolate
Suddenly I like chocolate. Who knew? Mornings outside with coffee while Sol burns through the all but discarnate mist. How amazing is green when one no longer asks it to be the Lord or the Lord's special message to you? So much grace at once I can't remember how to unbutton her shirt! Hopefully she'll help or else provide diagrams. Traffic half a mile away obscures the river's low singsong, though if one listens attentively - sifts the abundant soundscape - it's there, it's always there. At 2 a.m. one wakes to the new clarity of no longer needing clarity, and at 3:16 wakes again and thinks "for God so loved the world . . . " and bursts out laughing, which wakes Chrisoula who - when told the joke - is decidedly not amused. Well, you open the curtains for some night air and there's the big dipper and you wake later than usual with aching hands and yet more work in the garden to be done and you take your coffee outside and try to listen to the tomatoes growing. Say thank you in a language I know and understand! How flimsy want is when compared to what is always given! Rules are a form of violence which is a way of saying that order is a form of violence which is less clear, isn't it? The collective will find you if you wait for it, sort of like a runaway at a bus stop whose parents love them too much to just let them go. There is no distance, nor anything but love! In the Creamery B. said "we joke a lot about bears around here," to which I replied "you should never joke about bears," to which he replied "you should never joke about never joking," to which I responded with an uncharacteristic whoop of laughter that made everyone in the place look up. The story of my life is called "Mowing around the Bluets." Or maybe "Late to Chocolate." Never is not better! I can't see all the way to October, nor quite resolve these lingering fears of death, especially that of my kids, nor care enough about either problem to bother giving them attention, which is a way of saying that October, like death, is always somewhere on the nonspatial nontemporal horizon. Why worry? More Husserl please, fewer new age shiny objects, and way fewer pithy bumper stickers. You're my favorite candy bar, when can I unwrap you?