I notice heartbeat has taken a vacation from its ordinary regimen. That face and head have created sympathy pain with all the suffering in the world. And bridge over dried brook bed is ready to cave and splinter.
It is September. Everything new is old again.
In prison this morning talk of Sufism, physics, Upanishadic ursound heard and remembered, and Albert Camus' youthful writing on God's dialogue with God's soul.
The question looms: if there is nothing beyond God for God to believe in, is there nothing beyond us for us to believe in?
Is this why "nothing" is the edge of our sanity and the difficulty we have when we realize we are not at all what we've thought we were, and nothing near what we think we are?
Just look at how we judge everything to be a matter of slight or might.
What will we do when we finally realize that the fantasy we call politics is the grand illusion no one can see through to a sane solution? That we are caught in a spiral of sinking false and frantic attempts to legitimize a senseless and corrupt system that serves only the self-serving and helps only those needing no help?
So we find something simple to hate -- like a football player who remains seated, his hand not over his heart, as the national anthem is played before the game.
Let's build a wall along the border of intelligent understanding and meaningless bullshit and make New Zealand pay for the pretzels eaten by laborers during their rest periods.
I prefer poetry circles with folks in their 90s and 100s on Friday afternoons. Something of substance. With cookies and tea.