“The tightrope that I’m walking just sways and ties
The devil as he’s talking with those angel’s eyes
And I just want to be there when the lightning strikes
And the saints go marching in” ~ Coldplay
“The gods are strange. It is not our vices only they make instruments to scourge us. They bring us to ruin through what in us is good, gentle, humane, loving.” ~ Oscar Wilde
It is a pretty much melancholy morning with sweet underlining attractions. Melancholy has that sweetness, and the presence of grace, whereas depression has only that yucky blend of woolen and leaden suppression, a fabric of timelessness, and the empty roar of dragons that you do not want to meet face-to-face. Don’t pull the St. George thing on these beasts. You can’t slay them. No way, now how. These suckers eat optimism and spit out bright fragments that give them heartburn if swallowed. Geez. My first trip out to the deck upon waking was met by coyotes; and many of them, by the sound of it. Just up the hill, where the mesa takes off, headed west. Some of them barked first. Yes, coyotes do bark like a dog. Their scientific nomenclature is canis latrans, which translates to “barking dog”. Some people refer to them as God’s dog. Some say the Creator sent Coyote down to oversee the new material world of creatures and stuff. I don’t know. But the barks from this morning’s coyotes went up into a few little howls, then the whole lot of them commenced to squealing, a shrill sound, pristine with joy, perhaps to announce the reunion of the pack after their spread out efforts at hunting. Coyotes hunt in loose packs, together but not together. Humans, of course, sometimes do the same thing. I feel edgy and hounded by spell-chek suggestions, so I will wrap up this brief post by noting that the moon was smiling over my shoulder right after the coyotes sang to me. The stars were granules of light in the sweetly dark sky. I don’t know. Yeh, I just don’t know. Melancholy don’t have to know. No it don’t.
Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.