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A brief discourse on the way things are.

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In the morning the weather from this table is obscured by clouds, cool wafts of Pacific air gust along the sidewalk. Overcast threatens rain. Leaves nod. There is a Radio Flyer wagon in a second story apartment window across the street that is being used as a planter.

In Zokas Café watching traffic, reading. I note an article on technology company spread sheets.
I try to draw, my pencil, lead number 3B hesitates.
Schubert is on; a quartet drifts down in the café.

Across the way there’s this guy, animated pointing to his sandwich talking to his wife. He’s going over the sandwich like an engineer goes over a new bridge. An amazing series of frowns cross his face, there is a puffed explosion of gray beard on his chin, above them lips too large for his face, rubbery and mobile, his forehead furrows and unfurrows as he talks in an odd rhythm disconnected from what he might be saying.

He is a man whose idea of conversation is a series of pronouncements and prescriptions for everything; the sound of his voice is insistent and stressed, slightly pressured. I imagine he is someone’s father, his offspring are fat and very calculating, easily accused of being slow witted, they are probably very smart having been brought up in a house with faded prints on the walls, paper blinds pulled, so the light is very yellow, the floor groaning from bookshelves filled with heavy books, and the scratchy sound of a operas played on an old record player.

One chooses love or not.
“I fell down.” Is not the same thing as “I fell in love.” As love always involves an “other” that one easily blames for the state of “love”.
It makes the fallen a victim. Absolving one from responsibility, as if an accident happened. One does not “fall in love.” it is an act of will, a choice, in a culture that denies the will and makes victims of us all.

If I choose love it is a conscious act as much as not choosing it.
No two loves are the same; they are fingerprints on the way to a larger target destination. Our radar’s amber in the half light of the control room, LEDs red and dim, shapes bent over silently watching the approach of meaning, trying to decipher the epistemology of the universe.

Wittgenstein said that the world is everything that is the case, and the Tractates led the reader from there to the conclusion that in the end there are things which defy understanding and cannot be contained in a logically formal structure.

Godel built on that to the point where no formally logical structure can contain all possible cases, and that there are cases that are logically indefinable. Thus no formal logical system can be complete as much as we wish to have certainty in all things, such as love, and desire, and the color of sunsets.

We journey through the world. The light that passes us streams into space, voices on the radio pass beyond us, pass out into the great deeps of the galaxy and nebula. The signals faint and almost lost in the general background hiss of the hydrogen spectra, a dull soft reminder of the singularity that ruptured and bore the universe itself into being.

So we send signals, wondering if we are reaching the other, wondering if the bandwidth is heard and can be tuned. So I send to you a message through the recent static
of the passing storms that have rent our lives.

The sun falls down the well of Earth’s shadow. The cloud tops and mountains stretch across the sky as dark arrows pointing towards the deeps of night where unbidden dreams rise as partial payment for being human.

Embracing an instant of possibility arising out of action, a confirmation of cause and effect, the stars wink on. The heavens shot spatter the deep bowl of night above the rind of the afterglow that edges the rim of the world.

In Golden Gardens Park, on late summer cliffs, the wind whispers through the yellow grasses and gusts small sand dunes into being.
Over the Sound, in a hammered instant of times ascendancy, a ferry moves through times matrix, hazed with the distance, a green hull and white superstructure ripple across vibrating water. Bainbridge, the Peninsula, the Olympics, the color of blue slate. Above the snow line the airglows a superrational light fringed by blinding white. The face of the Brothers on the Olympic Range an enigma floating in the sky.

Sea gulls wheel, cormorants dive and hunt, seals bark among the rocks below. The shore is strewn with the wreckage of storms, and the rusted evidence of ships, and the remains of human contact with the sea, a shoe, and a soda can. Crabs wander randomly, waving across pigtailed kelp.

Leaves whisper fluttering, their pale undersides exposed, stoma closing in the afternoon light, still white and summery, the sun drifting down.

The soft sand of these cliffs, glacial silt, lain down 15,000 years before, sculpted since by wind and rain. Ice once overlay here 5,000 feet deep. Once the cold of the arctic filled the air and there was the subsilence of eternal winter, at least until the next millennial thaw.

The sunlight slant splashes a tide of light into cooling air.
The orthogonal matrix of space and time insure another rotation into Evenings Empire and I am sitting here, this moment, this time wanting to kiss your lovely mouth.

It is the evening now of another day.
It is another decent of night.
The small unobtrusive clouds and weathers come out. Behind them the stars blink in surprise, spread out across the sky as the sun settles down in a bed of mountains for the evening.

The sun god moans as he lies back, shoves a noisy thunder head aside and shushes it to quiet.

It is yesterday and now today.
The cats are sleeping on sheepskin, dark pools of soft fur, ears aflutter, eyes half open, they groom each other then curl together once more whiskers quivering.

Today it is cloudier and actually rains most of the morning.
It is cool and gray.
I imagine you in a meeting, head tilting, listening to your heart resonate as you relate the context of this life, as you try to weave and nit the lost contexts together of grief and loss, love and forgiveness, sorrow and joy.

I can see you slender and quiet, weighing the moments that slip past in the narrative of moment-by-moment, re-written as contract with the earth, the wind, the light that swirls through the clouds.

Seattle stretches out in the background, beyond the walls, the traffic whines and thuds pierced by sirens and cries.
On the coast, out to sea the light is white on the edge of things, white and still. Shadows creep out from under the cliffs, it is past noon, and dust is stirred by stray breezes, the sun white and knowing runs the great elliptic course constructed out of its celestial mechanics.
The highways move past San Francisco, Portland, Seattle, and Vancouver all at the same time, co-existing in time in the stillness just past noon.

There are motels and beaches from which no one stirs; there is a silence in the heart of light.
Shadows begin to lengthen once more
The weather gathers itself into a great swirl and threatens to rain, broken by patches of gleaming sunlight traveling slowly across the hills, the windows of the little houses glinting on Seattle’s hills.

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About Brian Weaver

  • Eric Olsen

    I could never think of Seattle the same way after “Here Come the Brides” went off the air. I miss Bobby Sherman.

  • http://mcfrank.blogspot.com Chris Arabia

    When I went to Seattle I had two goals. 1) visit Hendrix’s grave; and 2) grab some Dick’s (after listening to a friend extol the virtues of their burgers for 4 years).

    Dick’s refused to serve me a burger without onions, so I walked out. Reactions to this have run the gamut, from endorsement of my tough consumer stance to defense of Dick’s freedom to inflict onions upon me. I agree with both positions, so I exercised my right to eat elsewhere.

    We had Indian and I have never regretted it.

    The Hendrix grave (in Renton, subject of the Supreme Court porn area decision) was rather moving. People are always milling about quietly, awaiting their turn, visiting JMH, and moving on.

    Oh, the mountain and the volcano were cool, too.

  • Eric Olsen

    Yeah, some misguided neocon triangulators think Hendrix is more important Bobby Sherman. I say “hah”

  • http://mcfrank.blogspot.com Chris Arabia

    Unhand my hypotenuse, scoundrel!