Tuesday, December 29, 2015

Fireworks

Sense of closeness, gazing out the window. Sure enough, I go outside into a white dome of fog, not pea soup though, as the red and green channel marker buoys are flashing, and the line of lights of tall condos across the Bay at BayPoint and lining the Gulf shore at Panama City Beach. Cool and pleasant, 69F 96% up here in 7H. 

OMG, just picked up my phone and see a call from Robert. With Joe here and thinking about a death and related appointment, yesterday morning’s walk completely left my mind. We are leaving for Tallahassee at eight o’clock so Joe and Tass can visit while he’s here, back later afternoon is the plan.

Lots of about living here is perfect. One, going out on the porch feels secure and safe compared to the house where, except on the upstairs front porch, there was always at least a slight uneasiness of a prowler so don’t be completely relaxed and oblivious. Bear swimming across from Tyndall and wandering the neighborhood, happened more than once. Always an eye out for raccoons, those roof and attic monsters. Once, before I cleared out the thickness of it, I found a cooler box with beer and evidence someone’d been sleeping in the shubbery where the yard meets Calhoun Avenue, a few  steps from my downstairs front porch. At this age I enjoy a higher sense of security and freedom here.

At this age. Time and marking time, the sense of time, is a human notion as we ride along in a universe that’s still under construction, Logos still speaking as we, the billions of galaxies from our particular primal dot, continue the Bang, race with breakneck speed into wherever, fireworks, pyrotechnics, roman candle sparks that will fade and die in whatever “time” might really be. If our part started from the burst of that infinitesimal dot, there are other dots out there, having burst, bursting, yet to burst. Reality might be just a bucket of dots that explode as Logos tosses them up into the air. I guess it keeps Logos amused, eh, like an excited kid on a beach, watching fireworks in the sky on New Years Eve.


I don’t know. I don't know anything. Of that one thing I am certain.


Outbound.



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