Speaking Freely

When you're completely alone, it doesn't matter what you say or do. There is, of course, that problem, that you are a part of the world, so we develop different persona for where we might find ourselves. I watch myself closely on this front, and watch the way other people deal with it, it's a mixed bag. Some people surprise me, but not that many, and that's not just a product of years at the wheel, that element of surprise, it's something that actually occurs. I believe that, but I'm short on definitions. I really need to hook up the new printer, because I'm losing track of myself. I know I exist, at certain points of time, but as I gain definition I lose definition, and I wonder what that's all about. The more transparent I try to be, the more opaque I become. This is a language problem, I don't begrudge anyone anything. Whatever you have coming. I expect nothing, and that works for me. Your expectations would be different from mine. I assume we don't understand each other, maybe that gives me a foot up, an extra step. I'll take any advantage. I can't read certain things, parts of the old testament, the stupid parts, where I just roll my eyes, come on, we're adults here, some things are metaphor. Blustery day and the leaves are flying. Into the museum to touch base with D, order light bulbs, and to meet James and his fiancee. Cook's Tour. Stop back by Dave's place, best creek-bank mechanic in the county, but even he is defeated by my latched hood. The cable to the release has come loose and the primary latch (there are two) seems to be completely housed. It's impossible to get to. Dave says come back next Saturday and he'll stop at the auto parts store and read the manual. Haven't driven all the way up the creek in months but Dave lives at the outlet, near Rt.52, and I live 7.570 miles up the creek (my mailing address is the miles from the river, that's how they do it around here. Roads parallel to the Colorado/Utah border, in western Colorado, are often expressed as miles to the border. 41.35 Road. Here, everything changed, when the river ceased to be the main artery. Upper Twin Creek was running nicely, with the recent rains, at that lovely stage where all the fines are washed out, the water is wonderfully clear. Little waterfalls, over the steps of slate and sandstone. And the trees were lovely, madly shedding colored leaves. The verges are deep in leaf-drifts. The edges of the road are disappeared. Magic. There is a very real sense in which it is all theater: the posing, the role playing, the elaborate scenery, even the trained ducks at the lake. This whole Plato thing, reading for D's course, I'm struck with how dumb I was when I first read it. In the natural world, as I have lived for 40 years, the questions of reality fade into a chorus of frogs. There is no question in my mind, when I hold a tadpole, it is there. I can't speak to your table and chairs, but I know what I touch. And then it disappears. The past starts at the limit of my vision, when something has faded beyond my view, it's gone. It's the best I can do. I don't hide behind technique any more. I merely write. The past starts at the edge of the present, pat it on the ass and move on.