Christ almighty!

That bird singing when it’s so cold and dark out there….even the kitchen floor seems wet with night rain and chilly with the window left open.

How the hell am I going to describe that moment, the sound of it, the feeling, as I grope for the kettle.

I can’t.

The song, the moment, the very happening of it was its own closed description.

And you don’t need an arsehole like me telling you to listen to birds.

A memory, a sound, a snippet of thought, the sight of groceries on shelves and lost shoppers, eye contact that was almost but not quite eye contact, the smell of cars and rain outside…

Our stories are the stories of how we step from one compartment of experience into another and how the walls of these compartments rub uncomfortably.

And when the walls come down, this difficult present becomes an open field of seamless experience where differences go unnoticed, all images playing fairly under a steady sun.

It was unclear but the image persisted…

In some dark place, a simple dwelling perhaps

Some outpost forgotten by the world

An old lady with smooth face, likely blind, sat by a pile of coals.

Glass beads, one after another, passed through her smooth fingertips,

Held and turned slowly before falling

Quietly over her covered knees, clothing worn smooth.

Dark red, browns, greens, blues

Sewn together with a fine, strong thread to form a larger piece,

Her expression changing with each new glass

A smile, a frown, eyebrows twitching with each new vision.

Seamlessly, they passed through her flickering fingers,

All the while a throated murmur that rose and fell

Carrying with it the secret story

Of each tumbling bead.

There seems to be no end to these horizons that loom and fall like hills,
These epitaphs over epitaphs, self-scribed closures, hostages of the day,
One heavy hand shutting the book for the last time
Only for its white pages to be flipped open once more by an unexpected breeze.

You’d never imagine that sitting on this sofa in this empty living room with all the usual furnishings and piles, this passive presentation of an ordinary moment, could be so demanding, could be quietly asking you for everything.

Shall we further strengthen each others’ small stories

Or shall we let them run out

While our shy suspicions of an All

Touch fingertips?

The autopsy revealed something unusual about an area of his brain tissue. There appeared to have been some form of atypical morphosis surrounding a particular patch of capillaries. The pathologist estimated that over a number of decades, certain vessels had formed offshoots, which in turn had grown back towards the main arteries. He had seen a few similar cases during his long career but never such a pronounced example. The few relatives that were present to learn the cause of death were surprised by the doctor’s choice of words.

“I won’t confuse you with medical terminology. He died of obedience.”

We were not put here for the same purpose. 
I’ll go my way; you go yours.