Reeling in the identity fish today. In and by the lake, early June. It’s evening now. The seagulls were catching fish today, it was so hot that they fish were too slow. Do I need to correct bad philosophies? Is it my calling to acquire capital and power and deconstruct both? It was so hot that I was asking silly questions. In the sun, who am I? In the morning? After a night of little sleep? After a connecting? The name says so little. Five letters, four and four more if you do the part or whole thing. I’m looking at the afterglow of the sunset, listening for a calling.
When I was looking deep into the eye of a flower petal today, I think I heard the phone ring. The caller said, bike less. Move less. Write less. Do less. See the swaying flowers and the sunset afterglow, and only listen for the waves, not any calls. And if there is no wind, listen to the sound of the birds lightly chirping out taps as they get ready for bed, the ducks chattering their last chatters before ending their scrambles. Be as dusk, the call said. Be a moment in transition, not trying to be a starry night or a purple sunrise. Be still, at least more still. I can be more still. But I need to create the infrastructure that will enable stillness in my life. To unbuild, so that I’m in a field, rather than a parking lot with a three story building. The need to correct, the need to assemble, the need to vigorate, these are all moot at dusk. Be as the evening, with no thought of night advancing, a glow that glows and glows. The stars are there, you remember. The sun is there, you won’t forget. But the glowing is all the light you need. No fires. No fluorescents. No LEDs. Though there is this backlit laptop. For now, that will be a part of dusk’s tableau, the rasa. And I will type slowly, in time with the lapping waves and the circling gnats. I’ll lay here, head resting on bicycle helmet, safe. I toss out my rages, my frustrations, my inadequacies with the faded sunset; transiences all, washed away beyond the horizon. I just breathe deep the good air, taste the edge of cider behind sunburned lips. Watch the shadowy figures of conversants and talkers. See the boats heading home for the night. And the bats, beginning their feast. A slow kindness, the breeze on this cooling evening. A freshness, a smell like fresh water. It’s not a smile that falls upon my face, but a calm. The cheek edges and the jaw relax, as if a spring were being uncoiled after being doubled up for hours. A hum. A purring, really. A day’s reminder, of baby cats and seagulls. A phone conversation, evaluating the old, overheard, in spite of the waves. Dreams of waves and beaches, with eyes open. And rocks.
I dip my dipper back into the evening. I find the glow and escape the sounds around me, outside of the waves. I wonder what it is to be using sonar as the bats flit and dive. I hear a bat’s prey in my ear. What is the purpose of the stream of consciousness? To survive, with fitness? To achieve purposes? To advance consciousness? To live, long and prosperous? It doesn’t seem like a thing that is so weak to fall to purposes. So I think it doesn’t have a purpose. And I wonder what to do with that. To wonder seems to be to consider purposes. And here I am in the stream, wondering at consciousness. Openly, somewhat. Right now, it seems like the thing is to be dusk. To save the spot between day and night and stay here as long as it glows. And longer, because it can glow on and one. Is it a metaphor? Of course. It’s language. Do I understand? No. But perhaps you will.
Roman Ryan 