The River

Bug and frog noise. Enough cool breeze that I'm comfortable. The darkness is deep and oddly welcoming, a small death, like sleep, that promises oblivion or at least respite from care. True nature, as Thich Nhat Hanh says, what we feel innermost. Flowers and garbage. Nothing everywhere. A train, across the river, is a sad sound, a country music song. Suffering nourishes compassion, what we are, what we become. Tomorrow is a can of worms, I'll deal with that in good time, but right now, there is only the black hole of the present. An event horizon. Heat lightning. No sound, but a light show that may or not be real. I roll in my bed and clutch a pillow. The nature of reality is called into question..I wouldn't want to be misunderstood, I try to be clear, what I think I see. Still, there is doubt, what happens, what I perceive actually happens as opposed to what seems to be happening. You and yours, me and mine, the actual nature of things.The river figures in because it merely flows. A metaphor for everything else. There's you, and then there's the river. It's all drainage. Tallahassee, from Kim's posts, sounds the same as here, over 90 degrees, thunderstorms. D and I both useless at the museum today, walking around like zombies. I did get the floor semi-cleaned. Many spilled drinks is all that I can imagine. A lot of the finger-food was on toothpicks and I must have picked up 50; seems the protocol was to take one something from a cute serving girl, eat whatever it was, and just drop the toothpick on the floor. Several artists in, to pick up rejected work, and I resisted telling anyone that their work was rejected because it sucked. Proud of myself. Nearly killed Little Sister tonight. I was grilling a steak and went inside to get a drink, she knocked over the grill, ate the steak, and started a small fire. Fucking dogs. She ate the baked potato too, including most of the foil, and I ended up eating cold beans on toast. I grill three or four nights a week in summer, and this is not acceptable behavior. I'm not used to fighting for my food. I've never had anyone knock over my grill, except that once, when Marilyn thought I was paying too much attention to the ribs. I don't understand, ask anyone I get along with and they'll tell you I'm easy to get along with. And I'm attentive. What more could you ask? Yet I live alone, without running water, at the end of the grid, losing power every day, in my tree-tip pit. Actually, the people that do know me well understand that I'm almost completely transparent. Language, you have to laugh. How did we get this far? Look at the pictures on the cave walls. Everything is there, up through Bi-polar Disorder. I'm always amazed when people I know kill themselves, it would never occur to me that suicide was an option. I'd rather bitch about spilled drinks on a gallery floor, cut my hair, or something. I was only ever in one fight, couldn't believe we actually had to fight for a grade. I hit this way superior dude with an uppercut, hard right hand just as the round opened. I broke his jaw. Suddenly, I had a reputation. You know how that goes. I never fought again. I'm blessed with a second sight that always points out the bullshit. I usually think of it as a curse, that I can understand; sometimes I just surf., looking at letter forms. Meaning is a whole other kettle of fish. Don't get me started.