O: hazy mesa !
The next in the ever-continuing (duzzat mean never-ending?) chapters of the journal of the vizzits to the urinal in the middull of the labyrinthine imaginary realm wherein reigns Al B. Eon Sunlight. Inna sense, between senses, that is the sort of thing lurking behind the inane constant commentary of my subconscious, the universal background buzz of the Big Bang remnants, seriously: could be weirder than that.
Usually it seems my life is beset by storms of intensities ranging from mild annoyance to the occasional major atmospheric conflaguration. The wind howls, tree branches creak, perhaps minor leaks thru’ the roof, the twitter of happy birds with the dawn’s bright light poking around the fleeing storm clouds the following morning.
Not this time. The “Perfect Storm”. No rest either for the benevolent nor the not-so-benign. I’ve been away from the routine and sometimes un-tiresome demands (and not necessarily ‘demands’ — some of the requests are just that, requests) of the Quotidian. Frequently I think I can lapse into that: adhering to the routine, there is a freedom to the weekly schedule, while the body goes through the motions, the mind can roam.
Oh heck. A modicum of quasi/pseudo/pantomine normal is around the corner, isn’t it?
We, “B” ‘n me, have reconciled ourselves
we won’t especially worry about the
zombie apocalypse, which will probably be concurrent with the robot rebellion, nor
the cataclysmic apocalyptic armageddonic whatever,
whenever it happens.
For all we know
(oh, heck, even if we don’t know, which is a subset of what we know, ’cause the null set is embedded and a component of any- and everything, ’cause, after all, it is inherently null, void, empty, and so, can contain … “things”, as, after all, it is, as) the LAW says:
NATURE ABHORS A VACUUM
and due to the null-ness, can readily envelope and immerse itself into anything, and
we had a little fun ~~
the kids came over
we rode bikes on the Mesa
i skinned my knees (doofussy toe-stub on a downhill portion of a trail run)
i am in the Capitol of Arcadia=ness as i type this
have been too busy? to do much of anything except hour-by-hour obeisance to the Demands of The Quotidian, but nevertheless
have slipped away, if only mentally (what mental i have left)
to, if not exactly worship, or grovel, though perhaps the groveling is, like shoveling,
inherent in just the simple “being” of
the passage through time
nah, there’s no worship there. i’ve become the glue
Ben and Eddie look for fish on the pond. It always helps (duzzint itt?) if the fish to whatever degree are also looking for you.
I’ve often entertained, been entertained by, the thought that of all the tree spirits, those of the aspen, especially aspen-in-transition, are the most nearly visible.
It’s hazy (another forest fire upwind hazifying everything) but Betty liked this patch of red above Cedaredge a few weeks back. Maybe she’ll make a quilt somewhat like this ! But more vibrant. Bolder. Distinct. The haze comes with time …
Gran-ma Betty and youngest grandson, Henry Alexander … a bright day, a bright weekend, the calm before the return to doldrums for her, and a few weeks of worky-worky heck for me.
We rode our bikes from Land’s End to above the Powderhorn Ski area. This is NOT a “clear day” — due to the aforementioned-burning forests upwind. Usually you could see out beyond the distant mesa, ten miles away and five-thousand-feet lower, to the valley floor where our town is. Out here, in the high desert, the fire(s) could be the next state away, but in this case I think the source was either California and/or Oregon/Idaho…
It is the end of October and I just might emerge, unscathed mostly, as usual, from the vagaries of The Perfect Storm of work-related intertwinedness. Not only is my present (field-work) abandoned (gas) well project possibly due to end later this week (after only 4 weeks which should have been just one week), I was the company representative at a forum addressing another somewhat bothersome environmental industry problem, and spent yet another week going through the motions of participation and instruction in what I should know anyway. And that wasn’t the final most-important task — which I’ll keep quiet about, for a while.
No, none of the above is a world-shaking mystery. And, I didn’t read Mr. Patchen’s opus, only skimmed through it. Sometimes, though, I think it may have made an impression.
After all, one way of looking at “it” is that what constitutes each of our identity and “is-ness” is but the accumulation of impressions made by everything we touch or touches us.