| | Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man
I've begun to learn that you can listen to silence and learn from it.
It has a quality and a dimension all its own. It talks to me
sometimes. I feel myself alive in it. It talks. And I can hear it.
You have to want to listen to it, and then you can hear it. It has a
strange, beautiful texture. It doesn't always talk. Sometimes-
sometimes it cries, and you can hear the pain of the world in it. It
hurts to listen to it then. But you have to.
You'd notice that there seemed to be some heavenly support beneath his shoulder blades that lifted his feet from the ground in ecstatic suspension, as if he secretly enjoyed the ability to fly but was walking as a compromise to convention.
A spider had spun a web across the corner of the
upper rail, and there was a housefly trapped in it now, its wings
spread-eagled, glued to the strands of web, its legs flaying the air
frantically. I saw its black body arching wildly, and then it managed to
get its wings free, and there was the buzzing sound again as the wings
struggled to free the body to which they were attached. Then the wings
were trapped again by the filmy, almost invisible strands of the web, and the black
legs kicked the air. I saw the spider, a small, gray, furry-looking
spider, with long, wispy legs and black eyes, move across the web toward the
fly. I rose from the chair and went over to the web. The fly's tiny
black legs flayed the air fiercely, then its wings were free again, buzzing
noisily, but its body remained glued fast. I bent and blew hard against
the web. It swayed, but remained intact. I blew again, harder now,
and the strands seemed suddenly to melt. The fly fell on its back to the
wooden floor of the porch, righted itself, then flew off, buzzing loudly.
The spider tumbled from the broken web, hung by a single strand a few inches
above the floor, then swiftly climbed the strand, scrambled across the top
front rail of the porch, and disappeared. I went back to the lounged
chair, sat down, and continued to stare at the sunlight on the ailanthus.
It was one of those "five happy things" a day desk calendars; full of sundry lists that bespoke of carb-laden, cliche` joys: hot french bread, clothes fresh out of the dryer, raindrops on roses, your favourite song on the radio, and bubble baths. That sort of stuff. Only it wasn't on the right page. Todays isn't the seventh. I guess he just needed to borrow a couple tomorrows worth of happinesses to get through today.
As you grow older you will discover that the most important things that will happen to you will often come as a result of silly things, as you call them- 'ordinary things' is a better expression. That is the way the world is.
In the Jingle Jangle Morning I'll come following you.
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| | Posted 7/3/2007 7:24 PM
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