Tony Z at his finest. Here's to summer -- cut grass and stickball, force kale chips down 11-year-olds throats, put fun out of business. The Lake. Lemme at 'em!
Saturday, December 29, 2012
Sanctuary Speak
"The most valuable thoughts which I entertain are anything but what I thought. Nature abhors a vacuum, and if I can only walk with sufficient carelessness I am sure to be filled."
That's Thoreau. Coming home again, and maybe caring too much. I'm swelling with memories and good folk (and quite literally ballooning with food) like a tongue, until it fills the mouth and heads for the throat; it's like the only way out is going back in. Home is someone holding their finger up between your eyes, just out of your range of focus, and hooking the ends of your periphery together until there is nothing but a singular point of fuzzy, visual white noise. This particular return makes me cross-eyed. I care too much when I walk, move when I should sleep, and have thoughts talk over the crackling of the fire. Christmas day bloated too -- fist-sized snowballs and their dashing in a myriad of poofs onto the ground.
Maybe I'll disintegrate too; maybe I have too -- I wonder, per Gretel Ehrlich, "Isn't everything redolent with loss, with momentary radiance, a coming to different?" Each snowflake may be unique, yet all of them, even these big ones, fall and burst or melt, freeze; and on it goes. Nature eats it's tail again, and I feel small, yet integral. I dilate and eventually wane, soften then harden, eat my own tail and find myself at home once again; and in this distillation process I find that sometimes you just have to walk off all the growing pains.
As always, the photo archives provide solace, this time via South Dakota's open spaces. That grass is still crawling and I can look out at the sky and breathe my own wind toward the horizon. Clouds for peanut gallery.
That's Thoreau. Coming home again, and maybe caring too much. I'm swelling with memories and good folk (and quite literally ballooning with food) like a tongue, until it fills the mouth and heads for the throat; it's like the only way out is going back in. Home is someone holding their finger up between your eyes, just out of your range of focus, and hooking the ends of your periphery together until there is nothing but a singular point of fuzzy, visual white noise. This particular return makes me cross-eyed. I care too much when I walk, move when I should sleep, and have thoughts talk over the crackling of the fire. Christmas day bloated too -- fist-sized snowballs and their dashing in a myriad of poofs onto the ground.
Maybe I'll disintegrate too; maybe I have too -- I wonder, per Gretel Ehrlich, "Isn't everything redolent with loss, with momentary radiance, a coming to different?" Each snowflake may be unique, yet all of them, even these big ones, fall and burst or melt, freeze; and on it goes. Nature eats it's tail again, and I feel small, yet integral. I dilate and eventually wane, soften then harden, eat my own tail and find myself at home once again; and in this distillation process I find that sometimes you just have to walk off all the growing pains.
As always, the photo archives provide solace, this time via South Dakota's open spaces. That grass is still crawling and I can look out at the sky and breathe my own wind toward the horizon. Clouds for peanut gallery.
Friday, December 14, 2012
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