Stepping onto the porch at 3 a.m., last living dog bounding ahead, one looks up and sees flurried snow and dimly beyond, stars. Both earth and heaven are familiar landscapes, no? In the forest, one pauses to listen. Just shy of the brook - where sixty years ago you slept and made biscuits and repented of your one movement towards love - I heard ice melting, trickling down through limbs of chilled pine. You give to me and so I give to you and together we ascend the lighted stairs.
Or something like that. The old cat limps to the water bowl night after night. In my dreams I teach myself, or that is one way to see it. As a child, he identified with the internal observer and it wasn't until he turned forty that he began to question that decision. For some reason, I am thinking of the fairgrounds two towns away.
We confuse time - which is merely another idea - with time's measurement which - again - is merely another idea. As a child, the chemistry set appealed to me because each exercise invoked - involved maybe - transfiguration. Imagine that! He walked up the center aisle, lit by the rose light that was everywhere in those days. As are the dust motes, most holy of holy distractions.
We have been angling towards one another for lifetimes but at the last minute will probably veer away. Accidents of biology - their stories notwithstanding - can probably do no better. I write because I write and also prefer my cabbage fried in butter. Burned? Oh darling, the last thing you need is a plan
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