Countless love

Driving into more and more distances, the long, winding highway glitters under passing chariots. It leads to countless doors: blue ones on quiet streets, red ones on stone houses, a thousand sidewalks approaching the park with a fragrant rose at every corner.

At any opportunity one of these drivers could stop paying attention. When I felt the smack of another car hitting, my neck whipped backwards, those milliseconds turned infinite. All illusions evaporated and left me alone in the instant of love. You never know where your path will cross the line and collide with infinity. When last thoughts stretch on the event horizon to the moment of forever, I hope I'll be thinking of you. I would like to walk in the garden, feel and see the dew in your flowers, watch cool shade move endlessly through your eyes.

So take these words and remember me by them. Even when I am gone, don't leave me standing here. Tell everyone I was still here now. Surrounding air stings with my presence. Sinews of space-time stretch to accommodate restless curiosity.

Life is only a cancer in the steadfast uniformity of matter, a few molecules gone haywire. Mind is a strange wiring, electrical potentials, impulses flickering over dark surfaces. We feel so fragile, but no matter how many times you poison the malignancy, it returns in another form.

I started talking about countless love, now here I contemplate death (sometimes a lover feels like an 18-wheeler careening out of control in my direction). Love itself is an idolatry of creation, our chemicals and synapses playing the ultimate ritual performance. You can let it flash constantly, or die and cool like a planet at the end of the universe. For now I am awake, with mind unceasing.

And now in jest

To the universe: "Accommodate me!"

. . .

It occurred to me while writing this morning's post, in the part about stretching space-time sinews. It would have been wrong, of course. I include it here for those prurient minds who will share and appreciate the reference.

There goes my sense of humour again, Court Jester of the Dark Matter where even most powerful telescopes cannot detect, his punchlines arriving after we're dead. But even if you can't see or hear, you better believe, because the whole universe must answer to him someday.

First harvest

Brenna and I are proud farmers tonight. I hadn't made it over to the garden in almost two weeks, so we stopped on our way from picking up groceries, getting Bren's hair cut, and renting videos. Fresh snap peas will make a nice companion to spaghetti. Last time we ate our own vegetables was the summer of 1995. Brenna was only two, too young to remember, but Marian does. Too bad she isn't here to share the spoils. If we head north next week we must drop some off for her.

Also, we finally have the Sunfire back, repaired.