“A truth that’s told with bad intent
Beats all the lies you can invent.” ~ William Blake
“What sort of philosophers are we, who know absolutely nothing of the origin and destiny of cats?” ~ Henry David Thoreau
It seems I am not going to write more than a simple note here this morning. Too much shit lately, especially on the National stage, but not all. Plus I had to speak a truth yesterday, which I did not want to do, but it would have caused me avoidable harm, both subjective and objective, to not do so, and so I did. That sort of thing always takes a lot out of me.
The following I share lovingly – an exquisitely crafted paragraph from David Foster Wallace’s The Pale King.
Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.
“Past the flannel plains and blacktop graphs and skylines of canted rust, and past the tobacco-brown river overhung with weeping trees and coins of sunlight through them on the water downriver, to the place beyond the windbreak, where untilled fields simmer shrilly in the A.M. heat: shattercane, lambsquarter, cutgrass, saw brier, nutgrass, jimson-weed, wild mint, dandelion, foxtail, spinecabbage, goldenrod, creeping Charlie, butterprint, nightshade, ragweed, wild oat, vetch, butcher grass, invaginate volunteer beans, all heads nodding in a soft morning breeze like a mother’s hand on your check. An arrow of starlings fired from the windbreak’s thatch. The glitter of dew that stays where it is and steams all day. A Sunflower, four more one bowed, and horses in the distance standing rigid as toys. All nodding. Electric sounds of insects at their business. Ale-colored sunshine and pale sky and whorls of cirrus so high they cast no shadow. Insects all business all the time. Quartz and chert and schist and chondrite iron scabs in granite. Very old land. Look around you. The horizon trembling, shapeless. We are all of us brothers.”