One day, I will write it. Until then, I will keep looking for words to describe it. When I find them, if indeed I do, I will write it. In the meantime, I will continue to leave myself clues. Sorting out the clues will be no simple task. It will entail, first, reading everything I’ve written. Then, I will discard the chaff. The next step will be to organize what’s left into a coherent sequence and pore over it to determine what’s missing. When I have found and filled the remaining emptiness, I will write it. A manifesto. Or, I may decide to start compiling it before all the pieces are readily at hand. No matter. Either way, it probably won’t be a mind-changing masterpiece. How many times have I vowed to finish a project, only to realize my commitments were not bankable?
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Last night, we sat quietly on our recliner loveseat. The howling winds that had introduced a cold front grew louder and stronger and more intense as the early evening wore on. After darkness fell, though we could no longer see the trees flex and branches bend in the wind, we assumed some branches would surrender to the fierce gusts. Suddenly, a sound above us and outside the windows confirmed the assumption. I imagined a mid-sized branch had fallen, scraping the roof as it fell. And I knew I could not confirm it visually until the morning. This morning’s view outside the north side of the house confirmed that something larger had fallen. A tall and obviously rotted tree, as straight as an arrow, had snapped off a few feet from the ground. Pieces near the top broke off when it fell, scattering some of its rotten remnants on the forest floor below. I am curious about whether the north side or the roof of the house show any signs of being struck by the tree. However, I have no immediate plans to go exploring on this brisk (31°F) morning, even though the winds have calmed and the skies are absolutely clear and brilliantly blue. If I were to journey forth, though, I suspect I would find plenty of evidence the wind won handily over the trees in last night’s round of fierce combat.
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Today is the final Monday of the final month of a chaotic year: 2025. By this time next week, we will have waded into the early days of the only January we will experience in 2026. Every day thereafter, and each day leading up to it, is the final opportunity we will ever have to experience the moments that comprise the hours of those days. The mere fact—that every moment of every component of time is unique—argues that each such unique instance should be afforded an appropriate level of reverential recognition. But any time we take to devote to commemoration robs us of a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to actually experience that moment; commemorative or not. Yes, of course, time is fleeting. But does time pass us by, or is it the opportunity it takes with it as it goes?
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After I awoke at 4 this morning, I had already begun my morning routine when I decided to get back in bed. Sleep a little longer. Five hours later, I had slept for almost twelve consecutive hours—except for that brief detour. When I sleep so late, the day has a hard time recovering from its slothful beginning. It’s as if I might as well just go back to bed again and try again tomorrow morning at 4. For some reason, that day of sleep would not seem like an entire wasted day. Only when large pieces of the early parts of a day are torn away does the day’s value decline so precipitously. What opportunities would I miss, though? What opportunities do I miss during the time I sleep at night? Is that time wasted? I think I may be comparing apples to alligators here, when I use the word “opportunity” in a context in which “productivity” might better fit. “Productivity” can sound steely and sterile in some circumstances, but it can have a more compassionate side to it in others. “Opportunity,” too, can refer to “as-yet unearned and so-far-undeserved good fortune” or to a “chance to dramatically improve your situation.” I confuse myself when I attempt to think above my grade. Please pay no attention.
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For years, I have had a minor fixation with crows. Several years ago, when I visited the Jose Cuervo distillery in Tequila, Jalisco, Mexico, I fell in love with the large metal sculpture of a crow at the entrance. Since then, I have maintained my interest and appreciation in a low-key way. I have noticed, though, I am not the only one enamored of the bird. Mi novia feeds them with whole peanuts, in the shells, most days; and she bought a high-end ceramic “crow” not long ago. It sits on the coffee table. An acquaintance from my involvement with the UU church seems to be fascinated by them. My sister-in-law (my late wife’s sister) also feeds crows and otherwise reveals her admiration for them. There are others. Crows are said to be quite intelligent. I wish there were a way to understand their thinking and they could understand ours. Communication between us would be required for the thought-sharing to work. I saw a large abstract painting of a crow somewhere recently; maybe online. I wish I had saved the image; I want it with me, here in my study. I really MUST do something with the walls in my study. I can’t decide what I want to put up, though. My cup collection? My unicorns? Neither is as powerfully meaningful to me as once was the case. Perhaps a multi-dimensional array of crows. It may be a bit late to begin a hobby of collecting such stuff.
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Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I immediately see an abstract image billions and billions of incredibly complex shapes in a labyrinthine pattern. Usually, the images have a limited rather dark color palate; just one color in innumerable gradations. Every one of the billions of shapes changes its shape…radically…several hundred times per second. If I try to preserve a specific shape or a specific gradation of a shade of color, all the images suddenly disappear from my mind. But they eventually return. On occasion, I convince myself these billions of rapidly-changing images represent the sophisticated inner workings of the brain. But, then, I think they must be visual representations of the processes which the most powerful super computers use to accomplish the humanly impossible. This paragraph, by the way, is NOT a piece of fiction. I realize, of course, I write in ways that sometimes make it impossible for a reader to know whether I am spinning a tale or expressing my reality. This is real, but my experience cannot be adequately described with language.
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