“Nobody has a right to speak more clearly than he thinks.” ~ Alfred North Whitehead
I’ve got this image, drawn from the staggeringly spacious feeling I have today, that the archives of most of my life, with the demarkation for ‘most’ being the first book that I read all on my own, have been opened wide by some unidentified force, and as I stand at the threshold of the grande lyceum I realize that I feel like shit. The opportunity of a lifetime, to have the fetters of socialization and habit be torn asunder as I slept, all comes to me in a startling manner, and I yawn, I stretch, pour more coffee, glance at the pretty and low gray overcast, put off heading out to the laundromat, scratch my head once again, and again. There’s an endless number of things a fella could do when respiratory illness cranks up the volume of the gravity, making upright seem somehow interminably cruel. But I can do it. In a little while. Okay?
So what was the book? A Wrinkle in Time, by Madeline L’Engle, A Newbury Award winner that, as it turns out, is a parable for adults, written as a kid’s book, because some ideas and dreams are too large to fit into the restrictive parameters of adult prose. Go figure. The very first book I choose to read turns out to be a mind-bender. That explains a lot. I reckon that makes me well qualified to do my own laundry.
I know that it is love that opened this door for me today, the kind of love that slips right out when the coffers of the heart turn into butterflies, which are all still shaking off the embryonic fluid just as a cat shakes off an invisible nothing as they emerge from a cardboard box. I am surrounded by cats every workday. Perhaps their wisdom is finally sinking in? Yeh maybe. But it is more than that. I recently made way more connections than I am used to. That requires stretching. I stretched, something snapped. I see a smile in the green room of life and I think I know who it is but I cannot be certain; it might be me, but I think not. I’d rather not be certain until my certainty is itself certain. Ponder that, my friends! But I am pretty sure that life and love are pretty much the same thing, and the pretty little feelings eventually become big, broad dazzlers, cast before us like dice, like music, like dreams, like transcendence and transformation disguised as respiratory illness. That’s what I’m sayin’.
Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously