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I am enthralled by a world of paint chipped windowsills and spun glass. The slow, southward migration of the glass mimics the seasonal procession of migratory birds. In this picture paragraph, gravity and temperature respectively are the genesis for change. Gravity, in it's firm and familiar way, forces the crystalline molecules of glass downward in the same way the change of temperature in autumn forces so many of our feathered friends to take up flight toward warmer, southerly climates. The molecules pile endlessly one on top of another, pressing in, bulging at the seams. The seemingly inanimate glass is just the opposite: it teems with movement and motion in a slow but irresistible downward descent. In the same way, birds take up residence around ponds and waterways, seeking a food source and safety in numbers. A pecking order is established, and the annual journey is complete.
I am enamored by scraggly beards and unruly, unkempt hair. It’s like a man standing in the town square, laughing like a lunatic and pointing randomly with a stubborn finger, “it’s here! And there! And here! And there! Here also! And there too!”
I am drawn to the sound of gritty, sandpaper voices. I am like an anonymous stranger perched on a park bench, book in hand, drinking in the sun and smells of warm spring days. I turn my attention to the gruff voice of a passerby. Jovial and laughing with that deep, gritty voice. I pay no attention to the words themselves; but rather to the voice, with its tones of sand and metaphorical sawdust being tossed haphazardly into the air by some ancient carpenter. Light pours in through the workshop window, illuminating the fine particles of gritty dust.
I admire those who wear their clothes as if they have only one set. They are always clean and comfortable. The leather is worn and smooth as oil, made soft by years upon years of twisting and turning and sitting down and standing up again. The boots are well worn and sturdy. They have seen and trodden countless miles and highways. They have descended a thousand valleys, and kicking up dust and bits of gravel, they trekked up and out of them again. They slump over in the corner at night, next to the door. The wood surrounding the knob is dark and smooth. It's warm texture is a welcome greeting to a rough and calloused hand.
So deep are our observations in our Perfect Dreamland. Our eye sees all these things. I am as one who swings a mallet or handles an ax. The sharp ring of the mallet as it strikes steel, the dull thud of the ax as it splits wood. I could go on for hours describing these things to you. Life is so delicious and sweet, I will never tire of enjoying it’s fullness.
I am enamored by scraggly beards and unruly, unkempt hair. It’s like a man standing in the town square, laughing like a lunatic and pointing randomly with a stubborn finger, “it’s here! And there! And here! And there! Here also! And there too!”
I am drawn to the sound of gritty, sandpaper voices. I am like an anonymous stranger perched on a park bench, book in hand, drinking in the sun and smells of warm spring days. I turn my attention to the gruff voice of a passerby. Jovial and laughing with that deep, gritty voice. I pay no attention to the words themselves; but rather to the voice, with its tones of sand and metaphorical sawdust being tossed haphazardly into the air by some ancient carpenter. Light pours in through the workshop window, illuminating the fine particles of gritty dust.
I admire those who wear their clothes as if they have only one set. They are always clean and comfortable. The leather is worn and smooth as oil, made soft by years upon years of twisting and turning and sitting down and standing up again. The boots are well worn and sturdy. They have seen and trodden countless miles and highways. They have descended a thousand valleys, and kicking up dust and bits of gravel, they trekked up and out of them again. They slump over in the corner at night, next to the door. The wood surrounding the knob is dark and smooth. It's warm texture is a welcome greeting to a rough and calloused hand.
So deep are our observations in our Perfect Dreamland. Our eye sees all these things. I am as one who swings a mallet or handles an ax. The sharp ring of the mallet as it strikes steel, the dull thud of the ax as it splits wood. I could go on for hours describing these things to you. Life is so delicious and sweet, I will never tire of enjoying it’s fullness.
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