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Now don't start with that, "just wait until," business. I know you're older than I am. But I've never been that old and I have no idea what it's like. I've never been this old until today and I gotta say being this old sucks not nearly often enough. Being this old looks just like one endless, slow, painful, self-centered, whiny, Andy Rooney decline.
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Paul B. Joiner 3*(
Sent from my iPhone
Clear air, green field, lightly toasted under the big blue sun. A dozen or so naked men with their asses in the air (though it's hard to stare with one's own ass in the air and blood pooling in the ears).
Dragonflies hunt and swirl. Football squeals from hi-def TV far enough away so the masculine depravity does not much invade. My nifty new MacBook Air types sexily along as gentle ripples of contentment flow through my recently yogafied skin.
I am fed on fresh fruit and trail mix, multi-grain cereal and rice milk, coffee sweetened with agave syrup, and warm naked hugs. I am safe from burning under sun block, cheap hat, and tin roof. the barely perceptible breeze keeps me dry.
The yoga practice this morning was just energetic enough to work out the kinks of sleeping on cold ground. The sounds of the country night sang unfamiliar and fae through the distant trees. Yap yap yip howl twisted by distance and wind. Singing, sighing, and shushing tried to whisper me to sleep.
It didn't quite work for me. I resorted to Brian Eno.
The next day I learned a bit of camp wisdom:
You can't cook breakfast over a fire of morning wood.
His stomach is tied in knots. His mind rolls with unnamed anger. Formless reasons fight each other for the privilege of being the cause. He knows better. He knows that his anger has no cause other than brain chemistry. He knows that the little fantasies and plays mean nothing. Still they own him. They run him and send his anger higher, louder, and brighter.
Then he sees the accident. It is a candy bowl of spinning lights taking up most of the roadway. It is almost cheerful in blue and red exuberance. It even lifts his mood a bit until he sees the wreck.
A small sedan lies on its side liberally garnished with broken glass. His head turns itself away. He does not imagine. He does not cringe.
His mind does not roll with blood and pain and terror. He isn't blinded with images of twisted flesh and lost futures. He just drives on; gets out if the way. He turns the corner and drives on. He breathes. He focuses on the road. He breathes in and out, in and out, calm, careful, paying attention to the road. He breathes.
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Paul B. Joiner 3*(
Sent from my iPhone
