“Be quiet, darling. Let pattern recognition have its way.” ~ William Gibson, The Peripheral
The mind is thick with things both banal and richly intellectual, which can also be banal, but this is not. Air temperature 18º, coffee strong and rich. More riches. It’s that kind of morning. Cat at my side. She’s got her own dreams, but I am on about the nature of memories and how they are functionally lodged in the brain. Connections that flash back patterns to reflect with newly seen patterns; recognition and such. It’s heady, yup. This all arose from yesterday’s post. The old bar, the ocean, even older, good times, weirdo happenings and weirdo people. Lots of fishermen. Lots. Ted Williams’ bellowing presence. And a cat who would lay right next to your can of Budweiser. For several years we lucky ones lived within a reality that cannot be imagined. You had to be there, and even then there was too much to take in. Fun times, many of them drunken times.
It’s not the same these days, not for me. This is a monk’s existence, with lots of spiritual observation, and many, many, dreams; a time so resonant with life that I apply an oxford comma, quite incorrect of form, and I do it with no compunction. It’s an old David Foster Wallace trick. The must be rhythm in the sentence structure. It adds breadth and depth that simply would not be there if you put that comma where it belongs. There is really no harm done. And I cannot even believe that I am actually writing about it. It’s just that kind of day, that kind of morning. They say the snow may yet fall today. All the talk about blizzard conditions didn’t pan out. Pity. Taking a rebel’s stance I say bring it on. But it’s not likely; the gray sky a whisper rather than a roar. I’ll likely follow through with the intellectual vibes throughout the day sporadically.
I spoke with the doctor, quite recently; the shelter vet that got pummeled in controversy. We have a rapport; and friendship. I no longer have the more corrosive feelings about what went down, but the urge to stir things up again remains, an artifact of the puckish grin that drives the Trickster in me. Mythic stuff. Ain’t no friggin way I would actively serve that urge. I get, to this day, a nauseous feeling in looking back. I know the Lot’s wife story, but I like salt. And I like justice more. I am, again to this day, unclear on exactly where the justice ran off to, or where my clear perception ran off to. Drama, drama, drama; and only a few villains, none of which looked villainous to me.
Sunday, snow day. Like I said, tis an intellectual tone to my day, one which I will follow. Talking to Doc yesterday moved me into that head space that finds you suddenly smack in the middle of vastness unbridled. For me that vastness exists all around me, and I am held up like a rag doll, in the hand of the Mother Goddess, and She is showing me that I might could maybe consider being small instead of . . . I’m not quite sure where that instead was headed. We had a good talk, about life and stuff. I’m still not certain that I want to be small. But I do want to find active compassion in my life; and not “idiot compassion”. That would suck. But hey, it’s Sunday. As the legendary Grace Slick sang, “Feed your head”. That’s what I’m talking about.
Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.