September 20, 2003

  • I’m not infringed upon by the boisterousness of two lovers rolling in the grass a few tombstones away.  Nor by the Boy Scouts who apparently are camping here about the cemetery (where I sit) and who have just goofed by.  For my thoughts are of a time apart and a place away.  And though my body lingers in this moment with its possibilities for pleasure but also pain, I’m psychically already seduced by tomorrow as surely as yesterday I was pimped for today. 


     


    The waterface of life is where the ocean meets the sky.  Therein lies the cosmic exchange.  Who can follow that endless vaporous stream outward toward all that outlies? 


     


    There’d not be much fun in such a quest.  Much true adventure is relatively bereft of fun.  Yes, you still make what you can out of what’s at hand.  But true adventure is a calling out to leave behind the common vocation of routine work and entertainment both.  It’s often tantamount to being re-birthed without template. Care to start again without a clue?  Dare to risk all that’s known to discover what may be found?

    Of what adventure do I speak?  The adventure of living—the fate of man.


     

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