3807. THE ORDINARY BEING OF THINGS

THE ORDINARY 

BEING OF THINGS

'Catch him on his way out, then he can't linger

to talk.' Amidst a hall of distorting mirrors, we

are given (somehow) time to speculate about

our place and being. Isn't that, alone, enough?

No, it's not, for you are seeking answers too;

and all these people who work in a halfway

house are truly in a halfway house.

-

I find that I cannot get anywhere, because

 of 'things' : the flowers on the mantle and 

their conspicuous vase; the leftover, shiny 

paper behind the used adhesive of the stamps;

the old, brown bag that the rolls came in,

the shoebox on the dresser - filled now

with old photos and cards.

-

How things change surprises me.

I really can get but little done.

-

You are always playing that same old

music  -  some adagio by Samuel Barber,

or another Berlioz dream of a witch's Sabbath.

I'd rather a Pavanne by Ravel right now - but

that's how so many things differ, and why we

walk about in awe. First everyone watched the

woodsmen rubbing sticks to make a fire  -

which they treasured and kept.  -  

-

and in certain characteristic ways, called

it God; just like the fiery Sun above. Now, 

at the end of a 10-second matchstick, the

flame flames out and we think

nothing of it at all.