Desert Postulations
The desert oven bakes the afternoon in sun with wind dispensing the clouds to coastal terrain. Thursday after fires cook my alma mater in Northern San Diego County, I contemplate another day’s activities complete or pending. I will be off to Cathedral City in a matter of hours to commence tutoring a fourth grade girl for my final segment of the season. Now that the semester is ending and I’m off to the beach, this is the final roundup. Tasks complete and further tasks to list, I walk out into the brightness to take a tally of what I should do with the remainder of the week. Methinks, I’ll continue to query and apply. I want some excitement to occupy my summer besides me behind the screen. I need green for active placement in my advanced states of consciousness.
Don’t we all just want a little nookie? And I don’t necessarily mean sexual nookie because I enjoy just having a few guffaws to keep me moving along, not at the pace of a predator, but not sluggish either. I smell something baking—chocolate, nutty with a whole lot of rich, rich, I need a taste. I wonder where the spectrum will allow me to see next. Will I see what I’ll be doing in a week? A month? Will I blindly go and do, as I am so fond of doing? My enthusiasm permeates every hemisphere of my lifestyle from work to recreation. I know that knowing not I will still know happiness. I will have to know joy. I must. I feast on the famine of desire and wallow in the simplicity of it all. You and I, we, let us. I’m ready. Begin and go, go, keep going, stop and think, battle, war, bust, retreat, return, revenge, stop and think, go, go, keep going, finish and begin again.
I began today in a hurry to be up for the couple of handy men coming to repair the fridge and save energy with the air conditioning. Good things come to those who wait. I wait and read and wait and read and wait, really though I am reading the whole time. I find a way to pursue ideas in punching words onto the screen. I love when my fingers prance across the keys of this carbon fiber concoction.
Painting images doesn’t happen only in visual art. Here the photos skip across your mind. Colors sound as different as some scents feel rubbing against one’s nostrils. The sensual experience of culture offers different parameters for every individual, personalizing the consumption of do-dada-do. I think I know nothing I see is what I hear it to be. Is confusion an acceptance of eventual ignorance? Are ideas always founded in thought or do they just pop up like thought bubbles in cartoons? Why can’t we have it both ways? Most times arguing for a particular stance is just an arbitrary assimilation of one’s personal tastes and whims. I like low-fat milk, but not skim.
