Sitting down to write comps on a warm brown Sunday morn (34˚!?), I wonder about traveling, and movement. Wouldn't it be strange to presume that adventures only happen in foreign countries? Or that my actions are only novel if laced with Oriental mystique?
This morning I rolled out of bed just after eight, coaxed something a little like coffee from my french press, and pulled on my industrial navy blue rain boots. As I sloshed through snow-melt on my way to the library, I wondered about the present moment. Now.
If the present moment is the only thing that ever exists, then why is it so damn difficult to get your hands on? I feel like I'm constantly reminding myself to be where I am, to stop looking backward into nostalgia or forward into stress and fog. It's a strange circumnavigation of the present, a constant grasping that never quite results in union.
So, tromping through slush-puddles, I brainstormed possible ways to catch Now:
--Stalk it with a butterfly net at a River bend.
--Tickle it as though it were an anemone, so it wiggles and opens.
--Look at it only out of the corner of your eye, like a dim star in the night sky.
--Challenge it to chess.
--Leave a thimbleful of honey in a foxprint and lie in wait.
--Fish for it, and bait your hook with clever puns.
With these ideas in mind, I am going to continue writing about that which cannot be articulated.
Sometimes Sundays seem a little silly.
Be now here Now be here Here be now Here now be
ReplyDeleteThere is only the moment, but we can never truly know what it is. We must process via our brain which interprets reality and, afterall, by the time it is interpreted it is already past.