Where Have I Been All These Weeks?

It was recently brought to my attention that I had not entered anything on my BLOG for almost eight months. Yes, when I visit, that appears to be true. I don’t know exactly how to explain such a non-event. Perhaps I’ve had nothing to say during the entire time, then again, not. I may have been in a deep, blissful, meditative state, a coma even. Maybe I have been held incommunicado by outsiders who demanded all my time and resources, or, given the state of the nation, of the world, preoccupied with discovering solutions. Regardless, I seem to be unsleeping at the moment, even alert and capable of at least muddled thought.

When one has the opportunity to grow old, that is, pass into one’s sixties, though I suspect the term ‘growing old’ is subjective, and not easily defined, time really does appear to accelerate. Seems I am forever putting out the trashcan, yet the conscious part of me knows it is only once a week. If asked I would tell you the electric bill arrives three or four times a month. If only Zeno’s arrow paradox were true, and the shaft of time remained in flight forever. Alas, such endless flight is not possible, or should I say, Hurrah, such endless flight is not possible!

Sometimes, usually in the heart of night I hear the waters of the river Styx lapping against my front porch. I waded into the warm waters of Lethe some time ago, but I suspect the Styx will be considerably hotter.

The garden continues to expand into undeveloped areas of our two and a half acres despite declining energy, and shorter days created by a greater need for rest. I no longer propagate hundreds and hundreds of plants; a few hundred have to suffice. I fire the kiln occasionally, just to watch some of my clay projects explode. Creating new concrete garden art, I now realize, will have to end, perhaps as early as next year. Why sixty-pound bags of concrete mix seem heavy and awkward I have difficulty understanding. Travel to unknown towns and countries is always thrilling, and never fails to stir creative juices to a youthful passion. Still write; or rather make copious notes and convoluted outlines for poems, stories, plays, silly films, love letters and a category or two I have been unable to define. I make the occasional mosaic, putter around with stained glass, collage, art books, etc. but generally am content to read, add books to my library, listen to music, watch an occasional ‘art’ film or documentary, and generally spend the days musing on the past, the present, and a variety of futures.

The ‘tea house’ is a welcome refuge from what is already near silence and tranquility, and sipping tea while reading the poetry/haiku of Basho, Li Po, Buson, Issa and a glorious host of others brings much pleasure. And after fifty years of toil, at mostly unrewarding and uninspiring jobs, it’s nice to at last have a certain amount of freedom to follow those paths not taken.

Now, having read the above, I sense a distinctively negative atmosphere, and nothing could be less true. Life is at worst a grand adventure, and the ability to draw breath should not be taken lightly. ‘Carpe diem’ may be a hackneyed phrase, but true nevertheless.

Suddenly I feel a resurgence of creative imagination; a flood or words crowd my fingertips. I happily yield to such inspiration and hope I can find material suitable for this site before another eight months have elapsed.