Another moist, grey
morning. Birds calling. I am ready to head north earlier than usual by an hour, for a meeting at work. Whoo, the mourning dove calls, come on, get rolling.
I interviewed a man last night, nearly 80 years old, just about my father's age. He was born in the house he's living in. He has roots set down like the elm tree he said Elm Street is named after. A great blast of dynamite would not bring that tree down back when they were pouring cement on Highway 44. It took a second great blast of dynamite to topple the tree; the force of it broke windows way across the street at Stellmacher Lumber. Because the blast was directed to the south, the windows of the fellow's house, just a few doors away, were not affected, though the house shook.
It was a stubborn tree. It had been there a long time and it wanted to stay. The old fellow said: You don't know what you've got til you take dynamite to it and it's gone.
The rain and the wind has blasted apart some of our peonies. The weight of the rain lays some of them to the ground. There are great beads of moisture on the leaves of the plants.
As I back out of our driveway, there is a dirty-orange cat in the window of our bedroom, watching me. Silly cat.
Silly fellow this morning, writing down such things.
A woman is walking to the Fairwater cemetery. We are all walking to the cemetery - every day we are a few stops closer to becoming energy in the universe. Closer to the day we join the great thundering herds of buffalo shaking the far galaxies. Every day we are less material and more electric. Death, maybe, is a golden surge.
Death is when we let go of our old notions. Or is that life?
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