I always come back to the desert. There is a certain purity here, as though the desperation and struggle to survive in this most harsh of environments forces life to appreciate itself. To exist in a truer, more urgent form, stripped of pretense or falsehood. I feel like things obtain a more realized understanding of their own actuality in the face of such well-defined mortality.
I wonder…someday, after the world has come to recognize and celebrate my genius – too late, of course, for I will have tragically died, penniless and destitute, wandering the streets of some fair city, mad and rambling nonsensically from the sickness that has long destroyed my mind – do you suppose some renowned academic journal will painstakingly collect and publish my social media updates and text message soliloquies, much like the Collected Letters of Hemingway and Joyce?
* ‘Is he joking?’
* ‘I’m not sure…let’s just back away slowly…’
Heaven is a moment in the blissful light of your gaze. For, in that pinhole of eternity, we are Everything. And we are Nothing.
There is an Asian family a few blocks from Our Place that, at least a few times a month, has at least one of their kids out in the front yard, squatting down with a scornful grimace, picking blades of pernicious Bermuda grass one at a time. The Pack and I witness this occurrence regularly on one of our favorite roaming paths. The Patriarch Apparent of this family is usually standing nearby, surveying the work in savage contempt. I can only assume this is punishment for some dire transgression. I also assume that these people are Korean, because I am an ignorant American and cannot tell Asian people apart, and I think Koreans are the ones we don’t like right now.
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