The first thing I do each morning is to crawl back into the burrow of
habit, the
known, the security I crave. I ignore the beauty of the morning.
There is the
spectacular beauty of the early sunlight drenching the naked stems and
branches of a tree-crowded ravine in ethereal hues and opening up the
depth of space for squirrels to rummage and play in, and to chase each
other.
It's not for me that beauty, though it is knocking on my window panes
to invite
me. No, I have an appointment with my usual worries and hopes, fears
and
agendas. Only this break that I allow myself for my description. If
it wasn't for
this search for language that best describes this scene, would I give
it the
same amount of time? Probably not. I would hurry back into that
burrow.
And all my day I turn my back on the beauty that nature has prepared to
woo
my senses. No thank you, my time is bespoke by dull routines. I have
no time
for frivolous sport. I have misery to measure, gloom to fathom, flaws
to bemoan,
shortcomings to berate, duties to flout. depressions to feed. I have
not time for
beauty. I leave beauty to beggars and braggarts and bullies and to
those that
the bush administration calls bad people. Osama, how are you with
beauty?
Better than Bush?
On 23-Jan-06, at 8:42 AM, Hermann Janzen wrote:
How things are piling up. Each item creating a a kind of urgency and
yet each
getting in the way of other items. All my toys around me, but each
diminishing
the other, and each becoming diminished by the other. Time for some
exercise.
On 22-Jan-06, at 7:50 AM, Hermann Janzen wrote:
That same impulse is back again. Again its cause seems to be that
torn feeling.
Being torn in different directions. Pot would solve that problem
only by knocking
me out. So I end up incapacitated. Of course if the toke is large
enough, there is
also the high that opens up certain vistas that the sober mind shuts
down, unable
to deal with the contradictions that such vistas also reveal. The
stoned brain
manages to cheat itself past such contradictions. It becomes
galvanized by
powerful fantasies that release huge bursts repressed energy. I
could manage all
that much better if I invited my sober mind to enter that forbidden
zone. Isn't it high
time for me? Why demur? Why keep feeding my caged depressions?
Open their
hutches and let them forage on their own. They'd probably grow huge
and attack
me for having kept them locked up for so long. A tempting
proposition, no?
On 19-Jan-06, at 9:18 AM, Hermann Janzen wrote:
When the impulse to reach for a toke arises, it seems to come out of
a desire
to slow things down. To take a time out. And yet a conflicting
desire wants to
speed along on the wave of some pleasure. I don't really want to
take the time
to even write these sentences. I want to get on with the reading I
was engaged
in. And there are other demands on my time too. Lots of demands.
What to do?
Thank god, none of these demands carry great weight. Each activity
will fall into
place in time. But why am I sitting here wasting time? I could be
getting on with
other things. But a sense that there is a better answer, better
than any of these
activities. The answer of complete disengagement. An illusion?
Yes, clearly
an illusion. But all is vanity, and this illusion may be my best
friend. My best
partner in dialogue. The illusion inviting deeper questioning.
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