these are my static works of clay for you today

Here in my language I can communicate to you (for that is what is important, that I communicate to you, not that I am verbosing). I can be free with form and grace and style and say all I want to you. But I am bound by this language, this country. Withdraw these native things, I want to expand to those new horizons I've always been gazing after. Bound. The travel ties my tongue. I could drown in those autumn leaves before I could think of a way to express my need for help.

I'm guessing, francophonally, I communicate at the level of a 10 year old.


The other day at the grill I was trying to reach newer spiritual fields in my reflections and I looked down at my hands and realized how very much I was handling a chicken. A smoked and trussed up little chicken. There are times when it hits you that what is in your hands at one time stretched its mini-me muscles. That flesh and cavity, there, stiff in front of my face, there were thought processes once attached to what I'm holding. And as I'm tearing this dead chicken to bits for a large batch of soup, wondering transcendently, from back by the dishwashers comes an unexpected monologue.
Obi-wan. Luke! Use the force Luke!
During the day there are some middle-aged developmentally disabled men who do the dishes. Such an odd broad term. I learned on my spiritual day, there is a child of the movies among them.
ADRIAN!!
Here is classic cinema brought to me by my neighborhood dishwasher.
I asked him what his favorite genre was, apparently we can find him among the horrors and gorrors of the world.
Now he continues to regale me with movies clips and classic rock songs.

Did you know candy corn and pumpkins are made with real honey? Sleep safe and sound with that knowledge citizens of time.

Today I was discussing the aging process and assisted living with a friend as we lunched together upon a wall. The sun was crisp and everything was brisky color enriched and folded. Scarf me up. Oh friend of mine was explaining the character of dears she worked with at an A.L. place. One inhabited a mother role, another was sweet and frail but insisted on helping move about the long banquet table. What is it they're learning in this process? It must be such a beautiful, tragic and tender time. A time when bodies fail and minds might too--but there has been and continues to be life. And life knows. It lives, it breaths, it feels, it grows. How rich, how sad, to know so much, or know to have known so much, to have done so much and seen so much and now to be set on our social constructs as so little. I want to kneel at their feet and take their hand and plan adventures for us all to live-out.
But here in the A.L. places we invent a sort of community of wizened heroes. It's small and each holds his own role: the village that does not take care of a child, but each villager. What magic.

There.
I have done a thing we must be aware of because it colors facts and truths for good and ill: I have romanticized a thing.

To everything there is a season.

adieu.