"And the stars are projectors, yeah, projecting our lives down to this planet Earth." - Modest Mouse


Just Another Day 

I can hear the train wailing through the valley maybe a mile away. A long, dark cry, drawing a line of deep blue night between the redwoods rolling down & out to the coast. This stroke of coal burn is the only echo of blackness on a beautiful sunny Sunday. Indeed, the train itself, if we believe the signs thrown up for this weekend outside of Roaring Camp, is none other than cheery educational steam engine Thomas The Train. Thomas, it seems, in spite of his happy exterior, knows well the loneliness of the rail.

The trees themselves seem to be steadily marching towards the sea, streaming down through hills & valleys, their rooty toes dipped in the cool soft waters of the San Lorenzo River and its myriad web of tributaries. They carpet these lands in fuzzy green shag. On this shaded porch I can feel the gentle breeze stirred up by their movement. With it the sun's force is diminished slightly sparing the garden flowers from certain dessication.

Wind chimes are dancing softly nearby, swaying against each other and gently intoning their musical identity into the fluid air. Their cadence advances and retreats, quickened one moment, silent the next. Washing away, the air brushes branch and shrub, like a chorus of sandpaper underwater or a thousand shakare milling about in a Brazilian rain forest. Birds chirp and tweet and occasionally warble, calling and laughing with each other, perhaps mocking the acrobatic squirrels leaping through the canopy as if they themselves were so fortunate to have wings.

Hyperdimensional electric insect drones cut buzzing through the soundscape. When I look I can see hundreds, if not thousands of bugs making their rounds through the lillys, echinaceas, and naked ladys, each resonant and sensual draped in color, dripping with nectar & pollen. I've read that many flowers have ultraviolet markings visible only to the insect eye. Like cryptic neon club signs they call out to those in the know, the initiated.

Sometimes when the breeze is soft and the air warm, time slows against the rising tide of the eschaton. The seeming acceleration of life reveals itself as a human creation, a byproduct of quicker minds and faster fingers driven towards reunion with the hologram. Days like this remind us that the sun will keep burning, the air will continue moving, water will flow and earth will crumble, long after we've left it all for the infinite eternity of afterlife.

It was nice to stop for a moment and read this.

I was there. I felt the grass. I heard the chimes in the wind. I smelt a sea breeze.
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