The Very Big. The Very Small.

Yes, persistence is the key to open the locks of possibility. Or at least to wear around your neck like a good luck charm.

Bless Henry Miller and Moominpapa that I have just enough talent to be able to write to keep myself sane on days when things are slower than sludge sucked through a straw. Although there are days when the writing makes me crazy. One day it flows like the River Taff, the next it’s like a dry creek littered with dead frogs. (Note: No frogs were harmed in the writing of that sentence.)

I don’t want much from life besides trying to figure out how to have better control of the ordinary side stuff of life so that I can toss all the wildness and craziness into my writing. The universe can keep its elementary particles a secret to me. I have no need for a Theory of Everything. I just have a strong desire to be loving, gentle, funny, kind, and hopefully wise. And not in that particular order, either.

I love that quiet after supper with no noise except for the sound of the clock. The soft stroke of the mourning doves’ wings. The desperate cry of seagulls, whirling over calm water. And the light fading fast like it has a late-night rendezvous.

There’s nothing to do. The dishes are in the sink. The cats are fed and curled up on their favourite chairs. The kids are playing in a distant room. The neighbours have gone inside. Even the phone finds pleasure in silence.

No interruptions. No one expecting anything. The fridge shivers and the food waits for another meal. There are no emails worth bothering with.

Sometimes a disc seems to whisper your name. Sometimes a dog barks and falls silent. And sometimes, I put on my boots and go for a walk, bugs buzzing, the active birds of dusk nowhere to be seen. If I notice a sailboat, it seems to lazily crawl home to some port.

I just sit and watch the light go.

“55 crystal spheres geared to God’s crankshaft is my idea of a satisfying universe. I can’t think of anything more trivial than the speed of light. Quarks, quasars, big bang, black hole – who gives a shit?” Tom Stoppard.

Here’s some early Police.


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