bike, coffee, dreams, coffee, bike somemore
Today. today i called about a rom for rent. that was noonish. Got no answer, left a message. And felt ignored. Its a frustrating feeling when you want to get something done, and the world acts like a strong wind you have to walk into. I then packed up a few things, and took a trip down to starbucks, where I had only a little time to myself. My intention was to put my headphones on, do some work on my Laptop, and drink too much coffee. But a few hours into my simple plan, i was thankfully pulled away. Or rather i should say, I had to put away my headphones, because it was the only thign to do. My path was in front of me, and while not the only path, it was the only True path. It was my, as frank Herbert would say, my "golden path". And so the snow, speckled with leaves underfoot, became my golden path. It led me to a calm place, a long walk, and a lovely time at the DeCordeva. Where I saw art for the first time i na long time, well art that was real, there in front of me and also beside me. As apposed to being displayed in flashing frames on an LCD screen.
Then there was the Concord tree lighting. I can that it was nothing short of wonderful. I was in great company, in the chaos i felt free, and almost a bit less bitter than i usually feel. We dropped into the toy store, remeniced a bit. then there was the cheese shop, the bookstore (with the best Russian Tea!), there was the antique store -utterly amazing, and so much more. the bank, the radio station. Starbucks even, where i met a few of my new Comrades. And then a moment of Decompression in the Main st. Cafe. My dear was even kind enough to buy me my coffee, a gesture that was very endearing. And over said coffee, I cought a glimpse of myself. that is to say, A tired look, a "thousand-yard stare", a smokers look, where they seem to focus on something way off i nthe distance that no one else sees. And it has this timeless feel about it, an anachronism where the true age of her soul comes up for air liek a great sea creature. Breaking the surface of a young face, a worn and wise being emerges for a second to take a breath. A breath that seems to be perfectly zen. Filled with a sence of purpose and reflection, yet without false constructs or any predisposition.
But all this was for a second, and after i pointed it out, she said so simply, that we're quite alike, her and I. I doubt anything could have hit me as hard as that this evening. Through the snow, the hallways full of art, the streeets filled with children, to the wicker bar stools we sat in, it was i nthat moment i was brought down to my self. To say it better, I was confronted with a fact i hadn't seen all day, dare i say all year, or ever. But all this could simply be the construct of a disalutioned mind. A dream that plays over the random events of life, like a faint picture over TV static. Maybe I made it up. Maybe I'm wishing to hard. Then again, maybe everything is divine, and so are my dreams.
Then there was the Concord tree lighting. I can that it was nothing short of wonderful. I was in great company, in the chaos i felt free, and almost a bit less bitter than i usually feel. We dropped into the toy store, remeniced a bit. then there was the cheese shop, the bookstore (with the best Russian Tea!), there was the antique store -utterly amazing, and so much more. the bank, the radio station. Starbucks even, where i met a few of my new Comrades. And then a moment of Decompression in the Main st. Cafe. My dear was even kind enough to buy me my coffee, a gesture that was very endearing. And over said coffee, I cought a glimpse of myself. that is to say, A tired look, a "thousand-yard stare", a smokers look, where they seem to focus on something way off i nthe distance that no one else sees. And it has this timeless feel about it, an anachronism where the true age of her soul comes up for air liek a great sea creature. Breaking the surface of a young face, a worn and wise being emerges for a second to take a breath. A breath that seems to be perfectly zen. Filled with a sence of purpose and reflection, yet without false constructs or any predisposition.
But all this was for a second, and after i pointed it out, she said so simply, that we're quite alike, her and I. I doubt anything could have hit me as hard as that this evening. Through the snow, the hallways full of art, the streeets filled with children, to the wicker bar stools we sat in, it was i nthat moment i was brought down to my self. To say it better, I was confronted with a fact i hadn't seen all day, dare i say all year, or ever. But all this could simply be the construct of a disalutioned mind. A dream that plays over the random events of life, like a faint picture over TV static. Maybe I made it up. Maybe I'm wishing to hard. Then again, maybe everything is divine, and so are my dreams.