REALITY?: The Senses and the Nonsenses

It has become near impossible to be a picture framer, a cook, a laundress, a runner of vacuum cleaning machinery. The convolutions of my brain have filled and puffed out to a bulging flatness that threatens to crack the skull that contains it, like an eggshell grown too small to hold the living chick within. What I have feared and avoided for decades is coming to pass.

I want to think less dangerous thoughts: how to describe the song of the bluejay as the sharp, groaning squeak of a clothesline pulley, the trill of a mobile phone coming from the throat of some unseen small bird yet to be identified but around long before Mr. Bell himself ever existed. The flash of a gold finch flying in shallow semi-ellipses strung across the backyard of sky. The scattered open sore blossoms of pink on an arthritically old peach tree. The spilled wine of violets that sprinkle the green carpet of spring.

Nature and natural are two different paths. Nature evolves over thousands of years, while natural is losing its reason with stepped-up efficiency daily; more quickly with each passing day. The pity is in man’s ability to control only one with confidence, while losing his grip on the other.

I feared, and sought to avoid, questioning it all.